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STORIES AND VERSE 

OF 


WEST VIRGINIA 




STORIES AND VERSE 


OF 

WEST VIRGINIA 


COMPILED AND EDITED WITH BIOGRAPHICAL 
SKETCHES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY BY 

ELLA MAY TURNER, A. M. 

\) 

HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH 
SHEPHERD COLLEGE STATE NORMAL SCHOOL 
SHEPHERDSTOWN, WEST VIRGINIA 


WITH A FOREWORD BY 

WAITMAN BARBE, Litt. D. 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH 
WEST VIRGINIA UNIVERSITY 










Printed in The United States of America 



Copyright, 1923, 

By Ella May Turner 


The Diamond Binding & Printing 

(Intelligent Service) 
HAGERSTOWN, MARYLAND 

r\ r* « . I \ r\ 


SEP 24 1923 


Cl A 75908 5 


COPYRIGHT NOTICE 


For the use of copyrighted material included in this volume, 
permission has been secured either from the author, from his 
legal representative or from his authorized publisher. All 
rights to stories and poems are reserved by the holders of the 
copyright, or the authorized publishers, as named below: 

Abbey and Imbrie: “The Romance of Two Fish” by Albert 
Benjamin Cunningham. 

D. Appleton and Company: The selection from the memor¬ 
ial sketch of Frank R. Stockton in “The Captain’s Toll-Gate” 
“The Doomdorf Mystery,” from “Uncle Abner, Master of Myster¬ 
ies” by Melville Davisson Post. 

The Bobbs-Merrill Company: “The Heart of Goliath” from 
“Yellowstone Nights” by Herbert Quick. 

Doubleday, Page and Company: “England to America” by 
Margaret Prescott Montague. 

J. B. Lippincott and Company:" The Robin’s Creed,” “Sidney 
Lanier,” “Song of the Monongahela,” and “An Old Love Song” 
from “Ashes and Incense” by Waitman Barbe. 

The Neale Publishing Company: The poems from “Now-a- 
Day Poems” by Philander Chase Johnson. 

The Pepperrell Publishing House: “The Little Trumpeters” 
and “The Meeting Place” by Margaret Prescott Montague. 

The Pocahontas Times Book Company: “Larkspur” from 

“The Old Church and Other Poems” by Anna Louise Price. 

Charles Scribner’s Sons: “Black Gum Ag’in’ Thunder” from 
“John Gayther’s Garden” by Frank R. Stockton. 

The Stewart Kidd Company: The poems from “The Quiet 
Courage” by Everard Jack Appleton. 

The Stratford Company. The poems from “A Pilgrim Harp” 
by J. Herbert Bean and a poem from “Memories” by Joseph 
Margrave Meador. 

The compiler is indebted to the editors of the following 
magazines for permission to use the poems and stories men¬ 
tioned: 

The Atlantic Monthly: “A Well-Regulated Family” by C. 
F. Tucker Brooke; “Life in the Iron Mills” by Rebecca Harding 
Davis; the poems by Margaret Prescott Montague. 

The Century: “Black Gum Ag’in’ Thunder” by Frank R. 
Stockton; “A Whiff of Smoke” by Herbert Quick; “They Both 
Needed It” By Fanny Kemble Johnson; “Old Calhoun” by Frank 
Preston Smart. 

Education: “Moonlight Schools” by Lena McBee. 

Harper's Magazine: “The Lost Child,” “The Watcher,” 
“Singing He Rode” and “The Moor’s Key” by Fanny Kemble 
Johnson; "A Song of Love and Summer,” “A Song of Sunset” by 
Katharine Pearson Woods. 

Harper’s Weekly: “The Lost Child” by Fanny Kemble 
Johnson. 

Henrietta Goldsborough (Poems by Edwin Gray Lee), A. 
De R. Meares (Poems by Katharine Pearson Woods. 

V 


VI 


COPYRIGHT NOTICE 


McClure’s Magazine: “Mr. Zirkle and Ruthless Rose Amy” 
by Henry Sydnor Harrison. 

Munsey’s Magazine: “Guerdon" by Frank Preston Smart. 

Putnam’s Magazine. “Bunyan in Prison” by Frank Preston 
Smart. 

New York Evening Post: “The Daughter of the Stars,” 
“Moonlight on Kanawha,” “Ships in Hampton Roads” by Gar¬ 
nett Laidlaw Eskew. 

Saturday Evening Post: “The Doomdorf Mystery” by Mel¬ 
ville Davisson Post; “The Heart of Goliath” by Herbert Quick. 

Scribner’s Magazine: “Compline” by Georgiana Goddard 
King; “A Comment” and “Samaritan” by Frank Preston Smart. 

The Touchstone: “Silence” by Virginia Biddle. 

Vogue: “April” and “At Dusk” by Virginia Biddle. 

Express personal permission has been received by the editor 
from the following authors or representatives of authors for the 
uxe of stories and poems found in this collection, all rights of 
which are reserved by them unless otherwise specified: 

George Wesley Atkinson: Poems from “Chips and Whet¬ 
stones.” 

St. John Byer: Poems from “Stories in Rhyme.” 

John Jacob Cornwell: Stories from “Knock About Notes” 
and poems by Marshall S. Cornwell from “Wheat and Chaff.” 

Frances Moore Bland: Poems from “Twilight Reveries.” 

Violet Dandridge. Poems by Danske Dandridge and from 
“Joy and Other Poems.” 

John S. Hall: Poems from “Musings of a Quiet Hour.” 

Anna R. Henderson: Poems from “Life and Song.” 

Clyde Beecher Johnson: “The Wild Easter Lily” from 
“Rhyme and Reason.” 

Georgiana Goddard King: “The Call,” “A Man Called Dante, 
I Have Heard” and “Hylas” from “The Way of Perfect Love.” 

Mary Leighton: Poems by William Leighton from “A Scrap- 
Book of Pictures and Fancies” and selection from “The Sol¬ 
diers’ Monument Poem.” 

Virginia Lucas: Poems from “Wild Flower” and poems by 
Virginia Bedinger Lucas and Daniel Bedinger Lucas. 

Frances B. Martin: Poems by Edward Benninghaus Kenna. 

Hu Maxwell: Poems from “Idyls of the Golden Shore.” 

Robert L. Pemberton: Poems from “Random Rhymes” and 
‘Songs in Merry Mood.” 

Howard Llewellyn Swisher: Poems from “Briar Blossoms” 

Warren Wood: Poems from “Voices from the Valley” 

Everard Jack Appleton, Robert Allen Armstrong, Mary*Meek 
Atkeson, Waitman Barbe, John Herbert Bean, Virginia Biddle, 
Charles Tucker Frederick Brooke, Albert Benjamin Cunning¬ 
ham, Garnett Laidlaw Eskew. George M. Ford, Henry Sydnor 
Harrison, Charles Everett Haworth, Fanny Kemble Johnson, 
Philander Chase Johnson, Amanda Ellen King, Lena McBee 
Joseph Margrave Meador, Margaret Prescott Montague, Melville 
Davisson Post, Anna Louise Price, Daniel Boardman Purinton 
Herbert Quick, Anna Pierpont Siviter, Frank Preston Smart 
g£"y Lambright Snyder, Blanche A. Wheatley, Nina Blundon 
Wills, Betty Bush Winger. 

Henrietta Goldsborough (Poems by Edwin Gray Lee). A. 
De R. Meares (Poems by Katharine Pearson Woods.) 


PREFATORY NOTE 


The purpose of this volume is to afford the people 
of our State opportunity to become better acquainted 
with the literature produced by West Virginians during 
a period of one hundred years. My choice of material 
has been confined to short stories and verse, with the ex¬ 
ception of a few sketches selected from the literature of 
the period preceding the Civil War. I have chosen the 
work of representative writers from various sections of 
Vest Virginia rather than that of a much smaller group 
who have achieved distinction in the world of letters. 

Although critics may find in this volume much that 
they deem of little or no value, I shall not follow the 
example of a number of compilers who nervously im¬ 
plore their readers to remember that they are not the 
authors of the selections they have chosen, because I am 
proud of the literature of my State. Though much of 
it is crude in expression and lacking in technique and 
in literary finish, it is not unique in this respect. I 
have found from my study of the literature of other 
states—even those known as literary centres—that we 
West Virginians have no reason to be ashamed of our 
writers. 

Though some of the authors whose work I have re¬ 
printed have won not only national but international 
reputation, many others are men and women busily en¬ 
gaged in other occupations and professions, who, in 
their leisure moments, have written stories and verse for 
their own pleasure and that of their friends and not 
through any desire to pose as literary geniuses. A num¬ 
ber of these writers have done work that would do 
credit to authors whom critics have delighted to honor. 

It must be remembered, also, that not only many 

VII 


VIII 


PREFATORY NOTES 


of the authors represented in this volume but also a 
number of other West Virginians have done distinctive 
work in fields other than poetry and the short story. 
Among the latter group may be mentioned: Matthew 
Page Andrews, Walter Barnes, Earl Brooks, James 
Morton Callahan, John Harrington Cox, Charles 
Edward Hughes, Virgil A. Lewis and Morris P. Shawkey. 

I desire to thank publishers, editors, authors, and 
representatives of authors for their permission to re 
print material and for biographical data. I would also 
express appreciation of the courtesies extended to me by 
the Librarian of Congress; Mr. Clifford Myers, State 
Historian; Doctor L. D. Arnett, librarian of West Vir¬ 
ginia University; Mrs. Emory McKinney, librarian of 
Fairmont State Normal School; Miss Alma Arbuckle, 
librarian of Glenville State Normal School; and Miss 
Pauline Shriver, librarian of Shepherd College State 
Normal School. To Professor Clark Northup of Cor¬ 
nell University, to Professor Robert Allen Armstrong 
and to Doctor Waitman Barbe of West Virginia 
University, to Mr. Walter Barnes of Fairmont State 
Normal School, to President W. H. S. White of Shep¬ 
herd College State Normal School, and to Mrs. Alice G. 
Kenamond, I am deeply grateful for valuable assistance 
of various kinds. I feel that I owe a debt of gratitude 
that can never be paid to the students of Shepherd Col¬ 
lege, for it was their interest and co-operation that en¬ 
couraged me to persevere in an undertaking that, be¬ 
cause of the pressure of other duties, seemed at times 
impossible of accomplishment. 

ELLA MAY TURNER. 
Shepherdstown, West Virginia, 

July 23, 1923. 


FOREWORD 


Professional students of literary history will read 
this book with one kind of interest, and most West Vir¬ 
ginians will read it with another kind of interest; some 
of us will read it with the two interests blended. Here 
are set forth the concrete evidences of the efforts of a de¬ 
veloping Commonwealth to express itself in one of the 
hue arts, and these efforts will be respected by literary 
students, as all such sincere efforts are respected, where- 
ever found. Local pride and patriotism will give to 
them a value often above their merits as literature. But 
both the literary student and the local patriot will be 
justified in welcoming a volume which contains selec¬ 
tions from the writings of men and women of such un¬ 
doubted gifts as Frank R. Stockton, Melville Davisson 
Post, Margaret Prescott Montague, Rebecca Harding 
Davis, Herbert Quick, Danske Dandridge, Frank Pres¬ 
ton Smart, Henry Sydnor Harrison, and Fanny Kemble 
Johnson. 

Then there are selections of great historical value, 
such for example as Joseph Doddridge’s Indian sketches, 
Alexander Scott Withers’ Chronicles of Border Warfare, 
(in its time an immensely popular work in these parts), 
and David Hunter Strother’s pleasant tales. 

All who know Philip Pendleton Cooke’s lovely 
Florence Vane will be glad of the opportunity to read 
other pieces by the same writer, even though they are 
not so good as the little poem by which Cooke is best re¬ 
membered. The author of this book is to be thanked for 
enabling her readers to make these comparisons, though 
we wouldn’t trade Florence Vane for a dozen Rosalie 
Lees. 


IX 


X 


FOREWORD 


Some of the selections in this volume are, to be sure, 
of only romantic or sentimental value. Mrs. Blenner- 
hassett was doubtless a very attractive lady and a model 
housekeeper of her sylvan home on the island near 
Parkersburg which forever bears her husband’s name, 
but not even her association with Aaron Burr could 
keep her verses from being pale and thin. A good many 
other things will be found here, among them the verses 
of Thomas J. Lees and some others of much later date, 
which have to be salted thick and often to keep them 
fresh; but we would not have them omitted for any¬ 
thing. It takes all of them to tell the story of what 
West Virginia has done and has tried to do. If a man’s 
reach does not exceed his grasp, then what’s a heaven 
for ? On the whole it is a good showing; many readers 
will find it surprisingly good. 

The biographical portions furnish material that has 
hitherto been uncollected or out of reach. Miss Turner 
deserves our hearty thanks for an excellent, conscien¬ 
tious, and comprehensive piece of work, to which she 
must have devoted many months of painstaking labor. 
West Virginians, whether now within or without the 
State, will welcome it, and through its use in the schools 
and otherwise it will enable us better to know ourselves. 
Students of the development of American literature will 
find in this but little-studied territory not only the 
familiar roots of literary harvests but at least a few 
original and beautiful shoots that have reached up and 
waved in the sun. 

WAITMAN BARBE. 

West Virginia University, 

July 15, 1923. 


CONTENTS 


EARLY PERIOD, (1822-1860) 

Margaret Agnew Blennerhassett. 

The Deserted Isle. 

Joseph Doddridge. 

An Elegy on His Family Vault. 

The Death of Cornstalk. 

The Indian Summer. 

John Brown Dillon. 

The Burial of the Beautiful. 

Anne Royall. 

The Salt Works of Kenhawa County.... 

Thomas J. Lees. 

Musings on the Ohio.. 

Slavery. 

Wheeling Hill. 

Alexander Scott Withers. 

The Massacre at Fort Seybert. 

John Kearsley Mitchell. 

The New and the Old Song. 

Philip Pendleton Cooke. 

Florence Vane. 

The Mountains. 

Young Rosalie Lee. 

Thomas Dunn English. 

Ben Bolt.. 

Gauley River. 

Rafting on the Guyandotte. 

David Hunter Strother, (Porte Crayon) 
The Journey to Canaan. 

Henry Bedinger. 

To the Potomac River. 


o 

•J 

6 

9 

10 

14 

16 

18 

18 

20 

24 

29 

31 

34 

35 

38 

39 

42 

43 

44 

46 

47 

50 

51 

52 
54 
56 

60 

62 

68 

69 


XI 
































XII 


CONTENTS 


CIVIL WAR AND RECONSTRUCTION PERIOD, 

(1861-1872) 

Rebecca Harding Davis. 71 

Life in the Iron Mills. 73 

Beuhring H. Jones.115 

My Southern Home.116 

Virginia Bedinger Lucas.118 

Meeting of the Shenandoah and Potomac at Harper’s 

Ferry.119 

Indian Summer.122 

Daniel Bedinger Lucas.124 

My Heart Is in the Mountains.127 

The Land Where We Were Dreaming.129 

Edwin Gray Lee.132 

The Rose of the Cloth of Gold. 133 

To a Mocking Bird.134 

PERIOD OF THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE 
STATE UNDER THE NEW CONSTITUTION, 

(1872-1922) 

Daniel Boardman Purinton.137 

West Virginia Hills. 138 

William Leighton.140 

The Fountain.142 

The Price of the Present Paid by the Past.143 

Christmas.....146 

A Sonnet Is a Jewel. 149 

Sleepy Hollow.150 

Time, Break Thy Glass.150 

Amanda Ellen King. ..151 

The West Virginia Hills..151 

Danske Dandridge.153 

To My Comrade Tree.155 

To Memory.156 

The Yucca.158 

The Spirit and the Wood-Sparrow.158 

Desire.160 

The Song Sparrow.161 

































CONTENTS 


XIII 


Bloodroot.16^ 

The Struggle.162 

Hu Maxwell. 164 

The Golden Gate.165 

California..168, 

Emma Withers.170 

Indian Pipes.170 

Hepatica. .171 

At Swithin’s Run.172 

Waitman Barbe.177 

Sidney Lanier.179 

An Old Love Song.180 

Song of the Monongahela.180 

The Robin’s Creed.182 

The Preacher at the Three Churches.183 

Among Its Flocks and Herds.192 

On the Potomac.192 

At the Wood’s Edge.193 

Stars of Gold.195 

Virginia Lucas.199 

Rue Anemone.199 

Columbine.201 

George M. Ford.202 

The Mariner’s Love.203 

Howard Llewellyn Swisher.206 

In West Virginia.206 

The Spring ’neath the Old Gum Tree.207 

Marshall S. Cornwell. 208 

Some Day.209 

Success. 210 

Frances Moore Bland.211 

Mother’s Eyes.212 

Anna R. Henderson. 213 

Fancies.213 

Relic Day.214 

The Field of Song.216 

Paying Their Way.217 







































XIV 


CONTENTS 


Philander Chase Johnson.219 

Once in a While.220 

A Humble Sermon.221 

The Cod of Progress.222 

Francis Richard Stockton.224 

Black Gum ag’in’ Thunder.228 

Herbert Quick.245 

A Whiff of Smoke.248 

The Heart of Goliath.250 

Edward Benninghaus Kenna.269 

Inspiration.269 

A Song of the Open Air.269 

Joy o’ the World.271 

How Can I, Lord?.272 

I Want to Go A-fishing.273 

A Summer Song.274 

The Valley of Slumberland.276 

A Mother’s Kiss.277 

Katharine Pearson Woods.278 

A Song of Love and Summer.279 

A Song of Sunset.280 

Anna Pierpont Siviter.281 

The Sculptor.282 

The Palm Tree.284 

Not Yet. 285 

The Tree.285 

Fanny Kemble Johnson.287 

The Lost Child.288 

The Watcher.289[ 

Singing He Rode.289 

The Moor’s Key.290 

They Both Needed It.291 

Frank Preston Smart.311 

Guerdon. 311 

A Comment.311 

Old Calhoun.312 

Samarftan.314 

Bunyan in Prison.315 








































CONTENTS 


XV 


Robert Landon Pemberton.317 

Down Long Run.317 

The Veterans.318 

Nimrod.320 

Catching the Train. 321 

Harry Lambright Snyder.322 

West Virginia.323 

John S. Hall.327 

The Flutter Mill.327 

George Wesley Atkinson.330 

Our Records.331 

A Summer Song amid the Hills.332 

Georgiana Goddard King.334 

The Call.335 

“A Man Called Dante, I Have Heard”.335 

Hylas.336 

Compline. -.... .337 

Everard Jack Appleton.338 

The Fighting Failure.339 

The Woman Who Understands.340 

Compensation.342 

Blanche A. Wheatley.343 

Midsummer.344 

Eventide.346 

The Trickster.,..346 

Clarence Everett Haworth.347 

The Violet.348 

To Verna Page.-.348 

Henry Sydnor Harrison.349 

Mr. Zirkle and Ruthless Rose Amy.353 

John Jacob Cornwell.374 

One Year.376 

Lazy, Hazy Days.377 

A Fall Time Hunt.378 

Joseph Margrave Meador.379 

Ole Brer Groun’ Hog.379 








































XVI 


CONTENTS 


Charles Frederick Tucker Brooke.381 

A Well-Regulated Family.382 

St. John Byer.399 

Renunciation.399 

The Aiigelus.400 

Lena Griffin McBee.401 

Woods in May .401 

Rhododendron.402 

Moonlight Schools.402 

Nina Blundon Wills.404 

Thanksgiving.404 

Christmas.405 

America’s Prayer.405 

Clyde Beecher Johnson.406 

The Wild Easter Lily.406 

The Voices of Autumn.408 

Robert Allen Armstrong.409 

One of the Many.410 

Warren Wood.411 

Indian Summer.412 

Voices from the Valley.412 

Virgin a Biddle.414 

Silence. 414 

April.415 

At Dusk.416 

Garnett Laidlaw Eskew.417 

The Daughter of the Stars.418 

Moonlight on the Kanawha.419 

Ships in Hampton Roads.419 

Joseph Herbert Bean.•.421 

‘‘Somewhere in France”.421 

Morning.422 

Meville Davisson Post.423 

The Doomdorf Mystery.427 

Albert Benjamin Cunningham.441 

The Romance of Two Fish. 443 






































CONTENTS 


XVII 


Betty Bush Winger.446 

A Cottage Sonnet.447 

Scattered Shells.447 

Anna Louise Price.448 

Larkspur.448 

Mary Meek Atkeson .450 

Bandits and Such.451 

Content.454 

Margaret Prescott Montague.456 

The Soul of the Little Room.458 

England to America.459 

The Little Trumpeters.477 

The Meeting Place.477 

Bibliography. 481 

Index to Authors .491 

Index to Titles .493 










































































































































































• 


* 



























Earlij Period 


(1822 - 1860 ) 


















MARGARET AGNEW BLEXXERHASSETT 

argaret Bi ennf.rhassett. who for about ten years 
was a resident of West Virginia, was the daughter 
of Captain Robert Agnew, the lieutenant-governor 
of the Isle of Man. She was the granddaughter of Gen¬ 
eral Janies Agnew, who was with Wolfe at Quebec, and 
who was later killed in the battle of Germantown. She 
married her mother's brother, Harman Blennerhassett, 

a member of a distin¬ 
guished and wealthy 
English family that had 
settled in Ireland dur¬ 
ing the reign of Eliza¬ 
beth. He sold his estates 
in Ireland because of the 
social ostracism that re¬ 
sulted from his marriage 
and came with his wife 
and child to New York 
in 1796. Becoming in¬ 
terested in Western land, 
in 1797, he went with his 
family to Pittsburgh, 
and from there by keel 
boat to Marietta. Here 
the Blennerhassetts lived 
while a beautiful man 
sion was being built for them on a large island in the 
Ohio. 

Ashe, an English traveler, who visited the island in 
1806, says: “The island hove in sight to great advan¬ 


tage from the center of the river...... A lawn in the 

form of a fan inverted presented itself, the nut forming 

the centre and summit of the island.and the broad 

segment the borders of the water. The house came 

into view at the instant I was signifying a wish that such 


a lawn had a mansion. It stands on the immediate sum- 








4 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

mit of the island, whose ascent is very gradual, is snow 
white; three stories high and furnished with wings that 
interlock the adjoining trees.” Of his host and hostess, 
he says: “The manners of the lady and gentleman were 
refined without being frigid; distinguished without being 
ostentatious; and familiar without being vulgar, impor¬ 
tunate or absurd.” 

Mrs. Blennerhassett was well fitted to be the mistress 
of her lovely home. Her tall and graceful figure, her 
clear complexion, her regular features, her deep blue 
eyes, and her glossy dark brown hair attracted the at¬ 
tention of everyone who saw her. Her charm of manner 
and her accomplishments won for her quite as much 
admiration as her beauty. She was familiar with French 
and Italian and had few equals in her knowledge of his- 
tor} T and English literature. She was a talented musician 
and an artist of ability. She was also well versed in all 
the useful arts of housewifery. She not onlv cut out the 
garments worn by all her servants, but also superintend¬ 
ed their making, and made most of the clothing worn by 
her husband. Several hours each morning were spent 
by her in the kitchen, directing her servants in their 
work. 

Mrs. Blennerhassett had the English woman’s love 
of outdoor exercise, and, accompanied by a servant, some¬ 
times walked to Marietta, a distance of fourteen miles. 
She was an excellent equestrian, and must have made a 
striking appearance as she rode about the country attired 
in a scarlet riding habit. It is said that a young farmer 
rented a cornfield on the island that he might have oppor¬ 
tunity to catch a glimpse of her as she walked or rode by. 

In 1805, Aaron Burr came to the island, an uninvited 
guest. He remained only three days, but returned 
again and again, and finally induced Blennerhassett to 
enter into his plans. Whether it was Burr s purpose to 
commit treason or not is not known, but the entire inno¬ 
cence of any such design on the part of Blennerhassett is 
proved by both his letters and those of his wife. On 
December 10, 1806, he left the island at midnight to join 


MARGARET AGNEW BLENNERHASSETT 


5 


Burr. In the meantime, the militia of Wood County had 
been called out to arrest him and his associates. Mrs. 
Blennerhassett courageously met the soldiers and forbade 
their touching anything not mentioned in the warrant. 
“But,” says Hildreth, “the mob spirit of the militia 
ran riot, the well stored cellars of the mansion were as¬ 
sailed, fences were destroyed to feed the sentinel’s fires, 
the shrubbery was trampled under feet, and for amuse¬ 
ment balls fired into the rich gilded ceiling. ’ ’ Mrs. Blen¬ 
nerhassett followed her husband a week later. Upon the 
breaking up of the expedition they went to Natchez, where 
he was arrested, tried, and acquitted. He then returned to 
his ruined home. He was again arrested, but since Burr 
was tried for treason in Richmond and was acquitted, 
Blennerhassett was not brought to trial. He was, how¬ 
ever, financially ruined because of the failure of Burr 
and his securities to repay the large sums that he had 
advanced. 

Mrs. Blennerhassett with her two little sons now 
joined her husband in Louisville. They later moved to 
Mississippi, where he was successful as a cotton planter 
until the war of 1812, when the plantation became prac¬ 
tically valueless. They sold it, however, in 1819, for 
$28,000, the greater part of which was used to satisfy his 
creditors, for debts incurred through Burr. An addi¬ 
tional misfortune was the burning of their former home, 
where they had spent the happiest years of their lives. 
The Blennerhassetts then moved to New York and later 
to Montreal, only to find failure, disappointment, and 
misfortune. Blennerhassett, as a last resort, went to 
Ireland, w T here he made an unsuccessful attempt to gain 
possession of some property to which he laid claim. He 
w r as abroad three years. During this time his wife strug¬ 
gled with poverty as best she could. One son was dis¬ 
sipated, another incapable even of taking care of himself, 
and the third a mere child. Hoping to add to the family 
income, Mrs. Blennerhassett published a volume of poems 
entitled “The Widow of the Rock and Other Poems.” 
She evidently planned the publication of this book as a 


6 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


surprise to her husband, for on May 19,1824, she wrote to 
him; 44 I am quite fatigued in body and mind; the latter, 
as you know, was always weak; yet it has achieved more 
than you would credit, did you know all. 77 (Salford, 
4 ‘ The Blennerhassett Papers, 77 pp. 618-19). On June 27th, 
she wrote: 4 ‘ All those little attentions paid to me at first 

by many of the citizens of this community, seem to have 
been withdrawn, until the publication of my book, which, 
in a few instances, excited a renewal of them, and which 
I rejected, holding it better to live in solitude than sub¬ 
ject myself to the capriciousness of those to whom I feel 
myself superior. The author of 4 The Widow of the Rock 
and Other Poems 7 will, therefore, receive no favor which 
was withheld from Mrs. Blennerhassett. 7 7 

Sometime after Blenerhassett’s return, he and his 
wife went abroad, where they lived on the Island of Jer- 
sey, and later on the Island of Guernsey, where he died 
February 1, 1831. His widow returned to New York in 
1840. Assisted by influential friends, she presented a 
claim against the United' States for indemnity for the 
destruction of her property by United States soldiers. 
It is likely that Congress would have granted her petition 
had it not been for her sudden death in 1842. She was at¬ 
tended during her last illness by an old servant, and by 
her sons, Harmion and Joseph Lewis, and was buried in 
the plot of Mr. Emmet in St. Paul s Churchyard, Broad¬ 
way. 4 4 It was not necessity that caused her burial there, 
but the fulfillment of a promise between Mrs. Emmet and 
Mrs. Blennerhassett that in death they would rest side 

by side, 77 writes Therese Blennerhassett-Adams. 

4 4 The abject-poverty tales of Blennerhassett and his fam¬ 
ily serve well the purpose of romance, but not of fact, be¬ 
cause they are untrue. 77 Joseph Lewis Blennerhassett, 
the last direct descendant of Harman and Margaret Blen¬ 
nerhassett, died in Missouri on December 8, 1863. 



MARGARET AGNEW BLENNERHA3SETT 


7 


THE DESERTED ISLE 

Like mournful echo, from the silent tomb, 

That pines away upon the midnight air, 

While the pale moon breaks out, with fitful gloom, 
Fond memory turns, with sad but welcome care, 

To scenes of desolation and despair, 

Once bright with all that beauty could bestow, 

That peace could shed, or youthful fancy know. 

To the fair isle, reverts the pleasing dream. 

Again thou risest, in thy green attire, 

Fresh, as at first, thy blooming graces seem; 

Thy groves, thy fields, their wonted sweets respire; 
Again thou’rt all my heart could e’er desire. 

0 1 why, dear Isle, art thou not still my own ? 

Thy charms could then for all my griefs atone. 

The stranger that descends Ohio’s stream, 

Charm’d with the beauteous prospects that arise, 
Marks the soft isles that, ’neath the glittering beam, 
Dance with the wave and] mingle with the skies, 

Sees, also, one that now in ruin lies, 

Which erst, like fairy queen, towered o’er the rest, 
In every native charm, by culture, dress’d. 

There rose the seat, where once, in pride of life, 

My eye could mark the queenly river’s flow, 

In summer’s calmness, or in winter’s strife, 

Swollen with rains, or battling with the snow. 

Never, again, my heart such joy shall know. 

Havoc, and ruin, rampant war, have pass’d 
Over that isle, with their destroying blast. 

The black ’ning fire has swept throughout her halls. 
The winds fly whistling o’er them, and the wave 
No more, in spring-floods, o’er the sand-beach crawls, 
But furious drowns in one o’erwhelming grave, 

Thy hallowed haunts it watered as a slave. 

Drive on, destructive flood! and ne’er again 
On that devoted isle let man remain. 


8 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Too many blissful moments there I’ve known, 

Too many hopes have there met their decay; 

Too many feelings now forever gone, 

To wish that thou couldst e’er again display 
The joyful coloring of thy prime array; 

Buried with thee, let them remain a blot, 

With thee, their sweets, their bitterness forgot. 

And, oh! that I could wholly wipe away 
The memory of the ills that worked thy fall; 

The memory of that all-eventful day, 

When I return’d, and found my own fair hall 
Held by the infuriate populace in thrall, 

My own fireside blockaded by a band 

That once found food and shelter of my hand. 

My children, oh! a mother’s pangs forbear, 

Nor strike again that arrow to my soul; 

Clasping the ruffians in suppliant prayer, 

To free their mpther from unjust control, 

While with false crimes and imprecations foul, 

The wretched, vilest refuse of the earth, 

Mock jurisdiction held around my hearth. 

Sweet isle! methinks I see thy bosom torn; 

Again behold the ruthless rabble throng, 

That wrought destruction taste must ever mourn. 
Alas! I see thee now, shall see thee long; 

But ne’er shall bitter feelings urge the wrong, 
That, to a mob, would give the censure, due 
To those that arm’d the plunder-greedy crew. 

Thy shores are warmed by bounteous suns in vain, 
Columbia!—if spite and envy spring, 

To blot the beauty of mild nature’s reign, 

The European stranger, who would fling, 

O’er tangled woods, refinement’s polishing, 

May find, expended, every plan of taste, 

His work by ruffians render’d doubly waste. 


9 


JOSEPH DODDRIDGE 

J oseph Doddridge, the eldest son of John Doddridge and 
of Mary (Wills) Doddridge of Maryland, was born 
October 14, 1769, in Friend’s Cove, near Bedford, 
Pennsylvania. When he was four years of age, the Dod¬ 
dridge family moved to Washington County, Pennsyl¬ 
vania. In 1777, he was sent to school in Maryland, 
where he remained for some years. While a mere youth, 
he became an itinerant preacher of the Methodist Church, 
After the death of his father in 1791, he decided to pre¬ 
pare himself more thoroughly for the ministry and en¬ 
tered Jefferson Academy at Canonsburg, Pennsylvania. 
It was while in attendance at this institution that he de¬ 
cided to become a minister of the Episcopal Church. In 
March, 1792, he was admitted to the order of deacons in 
the Episcopal Church in Philadelphia and, in 1800, was 
ordained a priest, having in the interval moved to Vir¬ 
ginia. He was a conscientious and able pastor and or¬ 
ganized a number of churches. Among them were St. 
Paul’s Church and St. John’s Church in Brooke County, 
Trinity Church at Charlestown, now Wellsburg, and a 
church in Steubenville, Ohio. Some years later he de¬ 
cided to engage in the practice of medicine, in addition to 
his clerical duties, that he might be able to provide bet¬ 
ter for himself and his family, as his salary afforded them 
only a meager support. He then studied medicine in 
Philadelphia with Dr. Benjamin Rush. lie was emin¬ 
ently successful as a physician and had a large practice. 
The fatigue and exposure to which he was subjected in 
a new and sparsely settled country undermined his 
health and he died after a protracted period of suffering, 
on the ninth of November, 1826, at his home in Wells¬ 
burg, West Virginia. 

[n the midst of his exacting duties, Dr. Doddridge 
found time to devote to writing. He was the author of 
“ Logan, the Last of the Race of Shikellemus, Chief of the 


10 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Cayuga Nation,” ‘‘a drama in which Captain Furioso, 
Captain Pacificus, and other classic figures rubbed 
shoulders with wild Indians. In the preface he ex¬ 
presses a fear that the dialogue may seem ‘ rough and un¬ 
couth—perhaps even objectionable'— a fear not well 
founded, however, as in fact both Indians and back¬ 
woodsmen speak excellent English. The play is of spe¬ 
cial interest because in the dialogue various types of 
backwoodsmen are set forth with their varying views of 
the Indian question as they knew it. Thus the reader 
learns much of the temper of the times. Needless to say 
the climax of the drama is Logan’s famous speech which 
was popular with all the pioneers. ’ ’ (Atkeson, Callahan’s 
“History of West Virginia Old and New,” vol. 1, page 
681). Dr. Doddridge made another attempt to put the lit¬ 
erature of the frontier in classic form in “An Elegy on 
His Family Vault,” which shows in a marked degree the 
influence of Gray. In 1813, he published a “Treatise 
on the Culture of Bees.” In 1824, he published “Notes 
on the Settlement and Indian Wars of the Western Parts 
of Virginia and Pennsylvania,” which, though invalu¬ 
able as a historical record, proved to be for its author 
an unprofitable investment both in time and money. A 
second edition of the “Notes,” containing a memoir of 
Dr. Doddridge written by his daughter, Miss Narcissa 
Doddridge, was published in 1876, and the third edition 
in 1912. Dr. Doddridge, in 1825, commenced “The Rus¬ 
sian Spy,” “a series of letters containing strictures on 
America,” and an Indian novel, but did not complete 
either. 


AN ELEGY ON HIS FAMILY VAULT 

Where Alleghany’s towering, pine clad peaks 
Rise high in air and sparkle in the sun, 

At whose broad base the gushing torrent breaks, 
And dashes through the vale with curling foam, 

My father came while yet our world was young, 



JOSEPH DODDRIDGE 


11 


Son of the trackless forest, large and wild, 

Of manners stern, of understanding strong, 

As nature rude but yet in feeling mild. 

Then our Columbia, rising from the woods, 

Obeyed the mandates of a foreign king, 

And then the monarch as a father stood, 

Nor made us feel his dread ambition sting. 

For him no splendid mansion reared its head, 

And spread its furniture of gaudy forms, 

His was the humble cot of forest wood, 

Made by his hands, a shelter from the storms. 

No costly dress, the work of foreign hands, 

Nor silks from Indian or Italian realms, 

His clothing plain, the produce of his lands, 

Nor shaped with modern skill, nor set with gems. 

Simple his fare, obtained from fields and woods, 

His drink the crystal fountain’s wholesome streams, 
No fettered slave for him e’er shed his blood, 

To swell in pomp ambition’s idle dreams. 

Look back, ye gaudy sons of pride and show, 

To your forefather’s humble, lowly state— 

How much they suffered, much they toiled for you, 

To leave their happier offspring rich and great. 

With meek Aurora’s earliest dawn he rose, 

And to the spacious, trackless woods repaired, 
When Boreas blew in autumn’s whirling snows, 

To hunt the prowling wolf or timid deer. 

And when stern winter howl’d thro’ leafless woods, 
And filled the air with bitter, biting frost, 

He hunted to his den the grisly bear; 

Nor without danger faced the frightful beast. 


12 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


The shaggy native cattle of the west, 

The bounding elk, with branching antlers large, 
The growling panther, with his frowning crest, 

Were victims to his well aim’d, deadly charge. 

In hunting frock and Indian sandals trim, 

O’er lengthening wastes with nimble steps he ran 
Nor was Apollo’s dart more sure in aim, 

Than in his skillful hand the deadly gun. 

To masters, schools and colleges unknown, 

The forest was his academic grove, 

Self taught; the lettered page was all his own, 

And his the pen with nicest art to move. 

Think not ye lettered men wdth all your claims, 

Ye rich in all the spoils of fields and floods, 

That solid sense, and virtue’s fairest gems, 

Dwell not with huntsmen in their native woods. 

When chang’d the woodsman, for hard culture’s toil, 
To fell the forest, and to clear the field, 

And cover o’er the waving grain the soil, 

He was the husband, father and the friend. 

His w r as an ample store of ardent mind, 

Rich in liberal and creative arts, 

To trace the landscape with correct design. 

And ply in many ways the tradesman’s parts: 

With feeling heart sincere and ever kind, 

He was the friend and father of the poor, 

His w T as the wish for good to all mankind, 

And pity often taxed his little store. 

His length’d years of sickness, toil and pain, 

When cherished by religion’s heavenly call, 

Strong was his faith in the Redeemer’s name, 

He sunk in death and died beloved of all. 


JOSEPH DODDRIDGE 


13 


My father and my friend, it was thy aim 
To make thy children rich in mental store, 

To thy expanded mind the highest gain; 

Aind may they honor well thy tender care. 

My mother sweetest, loveliest of her race, 

Fair as the ruby blushes of the morn, 

Adorn’d with every captivating grace— 

Her piety sincere and heavenly born. 

With hope elate she saw her little throng. 

Ruddy as morn, and fresh as zephyr’s breeze, 
Chanting with voice acute their little song, 

Or sporting thro’ the shade of forest trees. 

By fatal accident, in all her charms 

Snatch’d from her babes, by death’s untimely dart, 
Resigned me to my second mother’s arms, 

Who well fulfilled a tender mother’s part. 

Say, then, shall the rough woodland pioneers 
Of Mississippi’s wide extended vale, 

Claim no just tribute of our love or tears. 

And their names vanish with the passing gale? 

With veteran arms the forest they subdued, 

With veteran hearts subdued the savage foe; 

Our country, purchased by their valiant blood, 
Claims for them all that gratitude can do. 

Their arduous labors gave us wealth and ease, 

Fair freedom followed from their double strife, 
Their well aim’d measures gave us lasting peace, 

And all the social blessedness of life. 

Then let their offspring, mindful of their claims, 
Cherish their honor in the lyric band— 

0 save from dark oblivion’s gloomy reign, 

The brave, the worthy fathers of our land. 


14 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

My dear Eliza (Oh! fond hope beguil’d) 

Sweet as the rosebud steeped in morning dew, 
Tho’ withered now, I claim my lovely child; 

Nor have I bid thee yet a long adieu. 

Sweet little tenants of this dark domain, 

Yours was but a momentary breath, 

You ope’d your eyes on life, disliked the scene, 
Resign’d your claim, and shut them up in death. 

Soft be your rest, ye tenants of my tomb! 

Exempt from toil and bitter biting care; 

Sacred your dust until the general doom 
Gives the reward of heavenly bliss to share. 


THE DEATH OP CORNSTALK 

This was one of the most atrocious murders com 
mitted by the whites during the whole course of the 
war. 

In the summer of 1777, when the confederacy of the 
Indian nations, under the influence of the British govern¬ 
ment, was formed and began to commit hostilities along 
our frontier settlements, Cornstalk and a young chief 
of the name of Redhawk and another Indian made a visit 
to the garrison at the Point, commanded at that time by 
Captain Arbuckle. Cornstalk stated to the captain that, 
with the exception of himself and the tribe to which he 
belonged, all the nations had joined the English, and 
that, unless protected by the whites, ‘‘They would have 
to run with the stream. ’ ’ Capt. Arbuckle thought proper 
to detain the Cornstalk chief and his two companions as 
hostages for the good conduct of the tribe to which they 
belonged. They had not long been in this situation be¬ 
fore a son of Cornstalk’s, concerned for the safety of his 
father, came to the opposite side of the river and hal¬ 
looed ; his father, knowing his voice, answered him. He 
was brought over the river. The father and son mutu- 



JOSEPH DODDRIDGE 


15 


ally embraced each other with the greatest tenderness. 
On the day following, two Indians who had concealed 
themselves in the weeds on the bank of the Kanawha, 
opposite the fort, killed a man of the name of Gilmore, 
as he was returning from hunting. As soon as the dead 
body was brought over the river there was a general cry 
among the men wdio were present: 

“Let us kill the Indians in the fort.” 

They immediately ascended the bank of the river, 
with Capt. Hall at their head, to execute their hasty 
resolution. On their way, they were met by Capt. Stuart 
and Capt. Arbuckle, who endeavored to dissuade them 
from killing the Indian hostages, saying that they cer¬ 
tainly had no concern in the murder of Gilmore; but re¬ 
monstrance was in vain. Pale as death with rage, they 
cocked their guns and threatened the captains with in¬ 
stant death if they should attempt to hinder them from 
executing their purpose. 

When the murderers arrived at the house where the 
hostages were confined, Cornstalk rose up to meet them 
at the door, but instantly received seven bullets through 
his body; his son and his other two fellow hostages were 
instantly dispatched with bullets and tomahawks. Thus 
fell the Shawanee war chief, Cornstalk, who like Logan, 
his companion in arms, was conspicuous for intellectual 
talent, bravery and misfortune. 

The biography of Cornstalk, as far as it is now 
known, goes to show that he was no way deficient in those 
mental endowments which constitute human greatness. 
On the evening preceding the battle of Point Pleasant, he 
proposed going over the river to the camp of Gen. Lewis 
for the purpose of making peace. The majority in the 
council of warriors voted against the measure. 

“Well,” said Cornstalk, “since you have resolved 
on fighting, you shall fight, although it is likely we shall 
have hard work tomorrow; but if any man shall attempt 
to run away from the battle, I will kill him with my own 
hand,” and accordingly fulfilled his threat, with regard 
to one cowardly fellow. 


16 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

After the Indians had returned from the battle, 
Cornstalk called a. council at the Chillicothe town to con¬ 
sult what was to be done next. In this council, he re¬ 
minded the war chiefs of their folly in preventing him 
from making peace before the fatal battle of Point Pleas¬ 
ant, and asked: 

‘ ‘ What shall we do now ? The long-knives are com¬ 
ing upon us by two routes. Shall we turn out and fight 
them?” 

All were silent. He then asked: 

“Shall we kill our squaws and children, and then 
fight until we shall be all killed ourselves?” 

To this no reply was made. He then rose up and 
struck his tomahawk in the war post in the middle of the 
council house, saying, 

“Since you are not inclined to fight, I wdll go and 
make peace.” 

And accordingly did so. On the morning of the day 
of his death, a council was held in the fort at the Point 
in which he was present. During the sitting of the coun¬ 
cil, it is said that he seemed to have a presentiment of his 
approaching fate. In one of his speeches, he remarked 
to the council: 

“When I was young, every time I went to war I 
thought it likely that I might return no more; but I still 
lived. I am now in your hands, and you may kill me 
if you choose. I can die but once, and it is alike to me 
whether I die now or at another time.” 

When the men presented themselves before the door 
for the purpose of killing the Indians, Cornstalk’s son 
manifested signs of fear, on observing which his father 
said: 

“Don’t be afraid, my son. The Great Spirit sent 
you here to die with me, and we must submit to his will. 
It is all for the best.” 


THE INDIAN SUMMER 
As connected with the history of the Indian wars of 



JOSEPH DODDRIDGE 17 

the western country it may not be amiss to give an ex¬ 
planation of the term Indian summer. This expression, 
like many others, has continued in general use notwith¬ 
standing its original import has been forgotten. A back¬ 
woodsman seldom hears this expression without feeling 
a chill of horror, because it brings to his mind the painful 
recollection of its original application. Such is the force 
of the faculty of association in human nature. 

The reader must here be reminded that, during the 
long continued Indian wars sustained by the first settlers 
of the western country, they enjoyed no peace excepting 
in the winter season, when, owing to the severity of the 
weather, the Indians were unable to make their excur¬ 
sions into the settlements. The onset of winter was there¬ 
fore hailed as a jubilee by the early inhabitants of the 
country who, throughout the spring and the early part of 
the fall, had been cooped up in their little uncomfortable 
forts, and subjected to all the distresses of the Indian 
war. At the approach of winter, therefore, all the farm¬ 
ers, excepting the owner of the fort, removed to their 
cabins on their farms, with the joyful feeling of a tenant 
of a prison on receiving his release from confinement. 
All was bustle and hilarity, in preparing for winter, by 
gathering in the corn, digging potatoes, fattening hogs 
and repairing the cabins. To our forefathers, the gloonyy 
months of winter were more pleasant than the zephyrs 
of spring and the flowers of May. 

It, however, sometimes happened that after the ap¬ 
parent onset of winter the weather became warm, the 
smoky time commenced and lasted for a considerable 
number of days. This was the Indian summer, because 
it afforded the Indians another opportunity of visiting 
the settlements with their destructive warfare. The melt¬ 
ing of the snow saddened every countenance and the 
general warmth of the sun chilled every heart with hor¬ 
ror. The apprehension of another visit from the Indians, 
and of being driven back to the detested fort, was pain¬ 
ful in the highest degree and the distressing apprehen¬ 
sion was frequently realized. 


JOHN BROWN DILLON 

J ohn Brown Dillon was a native of Brooke County, 
West Virginia, where he was born in 1808. While 
he was an infant, his parents moved to Belmont 
County, Ohio. After the death of his father which oc¬ 
curred when the Son was only nine years of age, lie re¬ 
turned to West Virginia where he lived until he was nine¬ 
teen. He then went to Cincinnati where he engaged in 
the printer’s trade. It was shortly after his return to 
Ohio that he wrote his best known poem, “The Burial 
of the Beautiful,” which appeared in The Cincinnati 
Gazette in 1826. He studied law and was admitted to 
the bar, but was so retiring in disposition that he never 
practiced this profession. 

In 1834, he went to Indiana where he became one of 
the most honored citizens of the state of his adoption. 
He rendered an invaluable service in preserving the early 
history of the State. He was an impartial historian. 
He collected facts and stated them clearly and accurately 
without comment. In 1842, he published a history of 
Indiana which is todav regarded as the standard work 
treating of the territorial period and the organization of 
the State Government. In 1845, he was elected State 
librarian of Indiana and in 1863 was appointed to a 
clerkship in the Department of the Interior. He resigned 
the latter position in March, 1871. He resided in Wash¬ 
ington until 1875, when he returned to Indianapolis 
where he died February 27, 1879. An interesting and 
appreciative account of his life and services by General 
John Coburn appeared in 1886 in the Indiana Historical 
Society Publication. 

THE BURIAL OF THE BEAUTIFUL 
Where shall the dead and the beautiful sleep? 

In the vale where the ’willow and cypress weep; 
Where the wind of the west breathes its softest sigh, 
Where the silvery stream is flowing nigh, 

And the pure, clear drops of its rising sprays 

is 


JOHN BROWN DILLON 


19 


Glitter like gems in the bright moon rays— 
Where the sun’s warm smile may never dispel 
Night’s tears o’er the form we loved so well— 
In the vale where the sparkling waters flow; 
Where the fairest, earliest violets grow; 

Where the sky and the earth are softly fair; 
Bury her there — bury her there! 

Where shall the dead and the beautiful sleep? 
Where wild flowers bloom in the valley deep; 
Where the sweet robes of spring may softly rest; 
In purity, over the sleeper’s breast; 

Where is heard the voice of the sinless dove, 
Breathing notes of deep, undying love; 

Where the column proud in the sun may glow, 
To mock the heart that is resting below; 

Where pure hearts are sleeping forever blest; 
Where wandering peris love to rest; 

Where the sky and the earth are softly fair; 
Bury her there — bury her there! 

The Cincinnati Gazette , 1826. 


ANNE ROYALL 


F ew West Virginians know that, for about thirty 
years, Monroe County was the home of Anne Royall 
who had the distinction of being the pioneer woman 
journalist of America. She was the daughter of Will¬ 
iam and Mary Newport and was born in Maryland, 
June 11, 1789. “When I was a child,” she writes, “my 
parents removed from Maryland to the frontier of Penn¬ 
sylvania and settled in the woods at the mouth of Loyal- 
hanna, now in Westmoreland County. .... Our 
cabin, or camp rather, was very small—not more than 
eight or ten feet. This contained one bed, four wooden 
stools with legs stuck in them through auger holes, half 
a dozen tin cups, and the like number of pewter plates, 
knives, forks and spoons, though my sister (very mis¬ 
chievous) had lost one of the knives (for which I was 
chastised) broken one of the spoons, and seriously dam¬ 
aged one of the plates. Besides this we had a tray and 
frying pan, a camp-kettle and a pot; and our cabin was 
considered the best furnished on the frontier.” 

It was while the Newports were living at Loyalhan- 
na that William Newport died. Sometime later his 
widow married a man named Butler of Hannastown, 
Pennsylvania. After the total destruction of Hannas¬ 
town by Indians on July 13, 1772, Mrs. Butler, w T ho was 
again a widow, went with her children to Staunton, Vir¬ 
ginia, where she lived for a time. Later she became a 
servant in the home of William Royall, an elderly, learn¬ 
ed, and wealthy gentleman, who took an active interest 
in Anne and taught her until she was one of the best 
informed women in America. 

According to the marriage certificate, which is still 
preserved, William Royall and Anne Newport were mar¬ 
ried on November 18, 1797. Mrs. Royall, however, dis¬ 
putes the date. She says: “I am sure we were married 
in May. The leaves w'ere budding, the dogwood was in 
bloom and I was out sowing seeds when a messenger 

20 


ANNE ROYALL 


21 


came with a saddle-horse for me to go and get married. ’ ’ 

From all accounts, William Roy all was the most de¬ 
voted of husbands and found constant delight in the 
companionship of his wife, for, it is said, that she 
“ shared every view, liking or aversion held by her hus¬ 
band. To each she added a fire of enthusiasm that warm¬ 
ed the cockles of the old warrior’s heart.” When Wil¬ 
liam Royall died in 1813, he left nearly all his prop¬ 
erty to his wife. His relatives disputed his will and, 
after ten years of tedious litigation, the suit was decided 
against his widow who became practically penniless. 

From 1818 to 1823, Mrs. Royall spent much of her 
time in the South. In a correspondence with a young 
lawyer whom she addresses as “Matt” (“Letters from 
Alabama”) we get glimpses of her at her best, “sweet 
natured, large minded, witty and wonderfully observ¬ 
ant. ’ ’ 

In 1823, disappointed and shocked over the loss of 
her fortune, Anne Royall returned to Virginia to try to 
secure a widow’s pension of Congress, as her husband 
had been an officer in the American Revolution. She 
spent several months in Alexandria, and while there she 
prepared for the press her first book, “Sketches of His¬ 
tory, Life and Manners in the United States,” in which 
she makes many interesting references to her travels in 
West Virginia. In 1824-25 she took an extensive north¬ 
ern tour to secure material for her second book of travels, 
the famous Blackbook series. Her expenses were paid 
by the Masons who were rewarded for their kindness by 
enlisting her heart and soul in the cause of Masonry for 
which she shows her devotion in the books and news¬ 
papers which she published. 

“‘Within a space of five years, while constantly trav¬ 
eling, she issued ten volumes of ‘Travels in the United 
States’ and a very poor novel. The chief faults of her 
writing are too much detail, especially in regard to pri¬ 
vate injuries received by the author; amateurishness; in¬ 
tolerance of intolerance; too free use of names, even in 
an age when names were frankly published; hasty judg- 


22 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

ments based on feeling and exaggerated praise of friends. 
On the other hand, Mrs. Royall’s style possesses the mer¬ 
its of spirit; accuracy of description; practicality; per¬ 
fect clearness; a strong and telling vocabulary; humor; 
an underlying ethical purpose; patriotic fervor, and live¬ 
ness —a genuine personality makes itself felt on every 
page. ” (Porter, “Life and Times of Anne Royall. ”) 

Unfortunately Mrs. Royall became engaged in the 
bitter fight, then being carried on between Evangelical¬ 
ism on the one hand and Unitarianism and Universalism 
on the other. “For thirty years,” says Miss Porter, 
“Mrs. Royall watched Congress as a mouse watches a 
mousehole to see that Church and State lobbyists made 
no breach in the Constitution of the United States.” 
One gains an idea of her activities from the following: 
“I amused myself no little in chasing the Missionaries 
out of the gallery. One in particular, when I drove him 
off, returned after a while, and stole, not the first time 
I dare say, softly into the further end of the gallery. 
The moment he seated himself, I laid down my pencil 
and paper, and walked round to him. Upon asking his 
long-faced-ship what business he had there, he got up, 
without speaking, and walked further on. I followed 
him up, and finding I pursued him, he darted through 
the end door and away he went—and I returned in 
triumph. Strange how well these missionaries are ac¬ 
quainted with holes.” 

Her remarks on “sundry members of the twentieth 
and twenty-first Congress and other high characters” 
which she published in an appendix to her “Letters from 
Alabama, ”must have been highly interesting and enter¬ 
taining to her readers especially to the political and per¬ 
sonal enemies of the dignitaries. Although at times her 
comments on West Virginia were such as would entitle 
her, were she now living, to a position on the editorial 
staff of certain Eastern newspapers, she writes thus: 
“While speaking of the Virginia members or Virginians 
generally the Eastern and Western population differ as 
widely as though they occupy different states. The West- 


ANNE ROYALL 


23 


em are steady, mild, independent, and natural in their 
manner. They are kind, frank, and familiar, entirely 
void of ostentation; whilst with the exception of one, per¬ 
haps in a thousand, the Eastern Virginian swells himself 
up and looks big, vehement, lofty, and pompous; all of 
which no one cares for.” 

Finally, as a result of the hostilities that had arisen 
against her in religious and in political circles, Anne 
Royall was arrested, tried and convicted on the charge of 
being a common scold. After a trial that attracted na¬ 
tional attention she was found guilty by the jury, sen¬ 
tenced to pay a fine of ten dollars and required to keep 
the peace for one year. Mrs. Royall has written most 
graphically of her trial, and comments thus upon the 
verdict: “This verdict was pumpkin pie to Judge 

Cranch. The sweet Morsel licked out his tongue. Judge 
Thruston looked as fiery as Mount Etna, so displeased 
was he with the result. The sound Presbyterians gave 
thanks .’ 1 

In 1831, Mrs. Royall began the publication of Paul 
Pry , a newspaper which was merged into The Huntress 
in 1836. ‘ ‘ Through the mistakes of her first paper Mrs. 

Royall learned to edit her second one admirably. The 
Huntress (1836-1854) was for a long period an excellent 
and entertaining journal—always excepting, of course, 
editorial matter distasteful to persons holding strict Cal- 
vanistic views, to dishonest officials, and to anti-masons. 
No editor ever cherished a higher ideal of what the press 
should be than Anne Royall. ‘Education, the main 
pillar in the temple of Liberty, \ was the motto which she 
placed across the front page of The Huntress.” 

The last years of Anne RoyalPs life were spent in a 
pathetic struggle with poverty. In the summer of 1854, 
though her brain energy was as powerful as ever, her 
physical strength failed and on July 2, she issued the 
last number of The Huntress. On October 1, 1854, she 
passed quietly out of this life and was buried in the Con¬ 
gressional Cemetery where she lies in a neglected and 
unmarked grave. 


THE SALT WORKS OF KENHAWA COUNTY 

The salt-works in this county are another natural 
curiosity; they abound on both sides of the river, for the 
distance of twelve miles. This is another evidence of the 
providential care of the Deity. Here is a spot, that, were 
it not for this article of commerce, and the facility with 
which it can be sent to the market, would be destitute of 
almost every comfort and convenience of life. Immense 
quantities of salt are made here annually; upon an aver¬ 
age about one million of bushels, which employ one thou¬ 
sand hands. This salt is sent down Kenhawa river in boats 
to every part of the western country, and exchanged for 
articles of consumption. It appears, however, notwith¬ 
standing this great bounty of nature, that very few of 
the proprietors have realized any solid advantage from 
it; owing, perhaps, to want of capital in the commence¬ 
ment, want of skill, or want of commercial integrity, or 
perhaps to all three. 

The salt water is obtained from the bottom of the 
river by means of a gum, which is from eighteen to 
twenty feet in length, and from four to five feet wide; 
these gums are from the sycamore tree. They are pre¬ 
pared by making a crow at one end, and a head to fit it 
tight. This being done, about twenty hands repair to 
the place where it is to be sunk, which is at the edge of 
low water, on the river; not any where, for the salt water 
is only found within certain limits. But to return, all 
hands proceed with provisions, and plenty to drink, to 
the place. The gum is first placed in the water on one 
end, (the one with the crow) a man is then let down into 
it by a windlass, and digs round the edge with an instru¬ 
ment suited to the purpose; when he fills a bucket with 
the sand, gravel, or earth, which he meets in succession; 
the bucket is immediately drawn up, emptied, and let 
down again, and so on till the gum descends to a rock, 
which is uniformly at the same distance. As the man 
digs, the gum sinks; but no man can remain in it longer 


24 



ANNE ROYALL 


25 


than twenty or thirty minutes, owing to the excessive cold 
that exists at the bottom; and another one is let down, 
and so on in rotation, till their task is performed. In the 
meantime a pump is placed in the gum to pump out the 
water as the men work, which otherwise would not only 
hinder, but drown them. This pump is kept continually 
at work; about eight or ten days and nights are con¬ 
sumed in this operation; the head is then put in, which 
effectually excludes the fresh water; and a man from a 
lofty scaffold commences boring through the rock, which 
takes some time, as the best hands will not bore more 
than two feet per day, and the depth is from one to two 
hundred and fifty, and in some instances three hundred 
feet, through a solid rock. The moment he is through, 
the salt water spouts up to a great height, and of stronger 
or weaker quality as it is near or remote from a certain 
point on the river, which is the place where salt water 
was first discovered. Their manner of boring is nothing 
more than an iron of great strength, and of considerable 
length, made very sharp at one end, while the other end 
is fixed into a shaft of wood, and a heavy lever fixed to 
this; the performer stands still on the scaffold and con¬ 
tinues to ply the auger (as it is called) in a perpendicu¬ 
lar direction. This part of the business is not so labo¬ 
rious as the other; nor does the performer require that re¬ 
lief which is indispensable in sinking the gum; but he 
must have some dozens of augers continually going to 
and from the smith’s shop. I saw several of these at 
work, and likewise those at the gum; it is impossible for 
any one to guess what a wretched appearance these poor 
creatures make when they are drawn out of this gum. 
They are unable to stand, and shiver as if they would 
shake to pieces; it can hardly be told whether they are 
black or white, their blood being so completely chilled. 
The trouble of making salt, after salt water is obtained, 
is trifling. When the man finishes boring, a tin tube is 
placed in the rock, and by means of a machine, which is 
worked by a horse, the water is thrown into cisterns, from 
which it is committed to the boilers. This water is so strong 


26 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


that they make it into salt twice in twenty-four hours. 
All their wood being consumed, they are now boiling with 
coal, which abounds in their mountains. 

These salt-works have very recently been established. 
Some few years since, in the latter part of a very dry 
summer, the river being lower than it was ever known 
since it was settled by white people, the top of an old gum 
was discovered at the edge of low water, and salt water 
issuing out of it. In many places, where the fresh water 
had left it, it was incrusted into salt by the heat of the 
sun. It is supposed that the Indians, when they were in 
possession of the country, sunk the gum, and perhaps 
made some attempts at making salt. Col. David Ruffner, 
a very enterprising man, was the first that established 
salt-works at Kenhawa, at the place just mentioned; after 
him several others; but the old well, as it is called, that 

is, where the gum was discovered, is by far the strongest 
water, and it is weaker in proportion as it is distant from 

it, either up or down the river. Col. Ruffner invented a 
machine which forces the water up hill, to the distance of 
three miles, for which I understand he obtained a patent. 
The salt made here is not so fair as that at King’s ’works 
in Washington County, but it is much stronger, and bet¬ 
ter for preserving meat. I saw this proved in Alabama ; 
the meat (that is, bacon,) that was cured with the salt 
from King’s works, spoiled, while that which was salted 
with the Kenhawa salt, did not. Great quantities of it are 
consumed in Alabama; they take it in boats down the 
Ohio and up the Tennessee river. A great quantity is 
likewise taken up the Cumberland to Nashville. But 
what astonishes me, is, that they have to bore double the 
depth now to what they did at first; even at the old well, 
the water sunk, and they were compelled to pursue it by 
boring; this is the case with all of them. 

These salt-works are dismal looking places; the same¬ 
ness of the long low sheds; smoking boilers; men, the 
roughest that can be seen, half naked; hundreds of boat¬ 
men ; horses and oxen, ill-used and beat by their drivers; 
the mournful screaking of the machinery, day and night; 


ANNE ROYALL 


27 


the bare, rugged, inhospitable looking mountain, from 
which all the timber has been cut, give to it a gloomy 
appearance. Add to this the character of the inhabit¬ 
ants, who, from w T hat I have seen myself, and heard from 
others, lack nothing to render them any thing but a re¬ 
spectable people. Here have settled people from the 
north, the east, and the west of the United States, and 
some from the nether end of the world.—However refined, 
however upright, however enlightened, crafty and wicked 
they might have been previous to their emigration, they 
have become assimilated, and mutually stand by each 
other, no matter what the case is, and woe to the unwary 
stranger who happens to fail into their hands. I never 
saw or heard of any people but these, who gloried in a 
total disregard of shame, honour and justice, and an open 
avowal of their superlative skill in petty fraud; and yet 
they are hospitable to a fault, and many of them are 
genteel. I see men here whose manners and abilities 
would do honour to any community, and whilst I ad¬ 
mired, I was equally surprised that people ol* their ap¬ 
pearance should be content to live in a place which has 
become a by-word. But their females in a great meas¬ 
ure extenuate this hasty sketch. As nature compensates 
us in many respects for those advantages she denies us 
in others, and in all her works has mingled good wdth 
evil, you have a striking instance of this in the female 
part of the society of this place. In no part of the United 
States, at least where I have visited, are to be found 
females who surpass them in those virtues that adorn the 
sex. They possess the domestic virtues in an exemplary 
degree; they are modest, discreet, industrious and bene¬ 
volent, and with all, they are fair and beautiful; albeit, 
I would be sorry to see one of those amiable females be¬ 
come a widow in this iron country, in which, however, 
for the honour of human nature be it remembered, there 
are a few noble exceptions amongst the other sex, which 
may justly be compared to diamonds shining in the dark. 

As this famous county is to be a link in the chain 
which is to connect that part of Virginia east of the 


28 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


mountains with the whole of the western country, I have 
been at some pains to pick up every thing respecting it. 
As curiosity leads one to trace things to their origin, such 
as the history of countries, and remarkable events, I have 
traced this part of Virginia as far back as the year 
seventeen hundred and seventy-four, to the memorable 
battle of the Point, fought between the whites and the 
Indians, at the mouth of this river. I have seen several 
men who were in that bloody and hard fought battle, and 
have just returned from viewing the ground on which it 
was fought. I have seen that part occupied by the 
“Augusta militia,” commanded by Gen. Lewis, and that 
by the Indians. I have seen the bones of the latter stick¬ 
ing in the bank of the Ohio river; part of the bank hav¬ 
ing fallen in where the battle was fought discloses their 
bones sticking out in a horizontal position: the engage¬ 
ment lasted from sunrise till dark; the victory was claim¬ 
ed by the whites. From this bank, which is a hundred 
feet, or thereabouts, in height, I had a view of the beauti¬ 
ful river Ohio: at this place it is said to be five hundred 
yards wide. 

This river, which is justly celebrated for its beauty 
and utility, flows in a smooth current as silent as night; 
not the least noise can be heard from it; not the smallest 
ripple seen. This, and its limpid appearance, the rich 
foliage which decorates its banks and looks as though it 
were growing in the water, by reason of its luxuriance, 
completely conceals the earth, and constitutes its beauty. 
If the reader can imagine a vast mirror of endless dimen¬ 
sion, he will have an idea of this beautiful river. It is so 
transparent that you may see pebbles at the bottom; not 
a rock or stone of any size, has a place in the Ohio. 
Kenhawa is a very handsome river, being generally as 
smooth as the Ohio, but by no means so limpid; it has a 
greenish appearance; you cannot see the bottom, except 
at the shoals. And more than all this, I have seen the 
celebrated heroine, Ann Bailey, who richly deserves more 
of her country, than a name in its history. 


From “Sketches of History, Life and Manners in the U. S.” 



THOMAS J. LEES 


homas J. Lees was a native of New Jersey and was 



1 first principal of the Linsly Institute in Wheel¬ 
ing where he lived for many years, and where he 
published his poetical works. One must depend upon 
the author’s own works for information concerning him 
for, like Shakespeare, he is his own biographer. In the 
preface to ‘ ‘ The Musings of Carol, ’ ’ he says, ‘ ‘ I make no 
pretentions to classical learning. I have neither had the 
good fortune to be nursed in the arms of the university, 
nor dandled in the lap of science, nor do I belong to any 
of those professions ’ycleped the honorable, but am mere¬ 
ly a common man, and this is my first attempt at author¬ 
ship. From my earliest recollection to the present mo¬ 
ment, I have felt an insatiable thirst for literature—but 
whether this may be called a blessing or an insupportable 
misfortune, time only can determine.’’ 

He also mentions here an interesting, though un¬ 
pleasant, experience of his boyhood—his presence at the 
execution of three pirates in Philadelphia in 1800. This 
suggested to him his writing the poem, “The Desperado.’’ 

“The ‘Ess^y on Liberty” he tells us, “was written 
with a view of reviving the spirit of republican simplic¬ 
ity. . . I love my country as ardently as any man 

living, and while I rejoice in her prosperity, I am but too 
well convinced that the spirit of speculation and monop¬ 
oly, the rapid progress of European pride and extrava¬ 
gance, the existence of slavery, a thirst for office, and the 
want of a system of general education, are the most ef¬ 
fectual means that could be adopted for putting an end 
to American liberty. ’ ’ 

In this poem, he also writes of the pittance paid for 
female labor, and in a note makes this comment: “If 
suitable employment could be provided for females, and 
competent wages given, it would not only improve their 
condition, but the whole community would feel the bene¬ 
ficial effects. At present the value of their industry is 


29 



30 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


depreciated to almost nothing; while those who labor not 
at all are getting rich by speculating on the industry of 
others. But since American liberty is so scandalously 
abused by such persons, it would not be amiss to exclude 
the male part of the community from such employments 
as naturally belong to the female, or compel them to put 
on petticoats.” 

He was also an advocate of free schools, as is evi¬ 
denced by the following lines: 

“Let education be 

As free as air—extended to the whole; 

To raise, enlighten, and expand the soul, 

That youth no more may grovel in the dust, 

And germs of genius in oblivion rust.” 

His resentment towards the attitude of Virginia con¬ 
cerning the suffrage question and the almost total failure 
of the convention that framed a new constitution to 
remedy this evil is thus expressed: 

“When by a suff’ring people’s earnest call 

The State Convention sate in Richmond’s hall. 

Of rank injustice did the poor complain, 

Sued for their blood-bought rights but all in vain; 

The haughty lordlings sate with swollen pride, 

And heard our grievance, but redress denied.” 

He makes some very interesting comments on this 
convention: 

“The convention was composed of the first charac¬ 
ters in the State; men celebrated for their learning, and 
for the purity of their principles. The session lasted 
about four months, and notwithstanding the splendid 
talents of its members, a few plain, well meaning farm¬ 
ers and mechanics could have produced a much better 
constitution in less than half the time. 

“The principal difficulties arose from the mutual 
jealousies which have long existed between the East and 
West. The Western members were unanimous in favor 
of a liberal constitution, and many of them distinguished 
themselves as able orators in the field of controversy; but 
they were out-voted by the slave-holders of the East,’* 


THOMAS J. LEES 


31 


He also says: “The time is not far distant when 
West Virginia will either liberalize the present State 
government, or separate itself entirely from the Old Do¬ 
minion. ’ ’ 

Perhaps the most marked characteristic of Thomas 
J. Lees that is brought out in his poems and notes is his 
loyalty towards the western section of Virginia. If he 
were living now he would probably be chairman of a 
committee on telling the truth about West Virginia. 
There seems to be a shade of resentment in the following 
lines towards “the Eastern traveller” for his ignorance 
of conditions in Western Virginia: 

“No more the mighty Indian wields in strife, 

The deadly tomahawk and scalping knife; 

But gentle peace and cheerfulness pervade 
The bustling city and the rural shade. 

Here commerce pours the wealth of other lands; 

Art sallies forth with strong and dextrous hands; 
Fells the tall forest, bids each mansion rise 
With taste and grandeur, destined to surprise 
The Eastern traveller, who vainly dreams 
Of wretched wigwams, and of savage screams.” 


MUSINGS ON THE OHIO 

Ohio—brightest of Columbia’s streams; 

Thy crystal waters, in their silent course, 

Glide ever beauteous through these valleys green; 
Thy winding shores are decked with verdant meads 
Amd proud majestic hills, that lift their heads 
With waving forests crowned, and massy rocks 
Exalted their awful clifts amid the storms 
Of heaven. We ask no flatt’ring fancy here— 

No fairy dreams—nor the enchanter’s wand, 

To fling new lustre on the gaudy scene; 

For beauteous nature walks abroad, array’d 
In gayest grandeur and sublimity! 

How oft o’er these green banks, at eventide 
I roam, to view the glorious setting sun, 



32 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

When Phoebus, robed in majesty, descends 
Upon the peaks of yon blue western hills; 

Flings his broad beams on the transparent breast 
Of this unruffled, fair and glit’ring flood, 

And decks profuse with many a varied dye, 

The changing beauties of the glowing heaven; 
Which, when reflected on the glassy stream, 

Attract at once our deep admiring gaze. 

Beneath the flood, a beauteous world appears, 

A world of fairy forms and brilliant hues; 

Too soon they change, take wings, and flit away, 
Like fancy’s vision or a magic spell. 

I love to wander, when the Queen of night 
In silent grandeur walks through yonder heaven, 
And spreads her chaste celestial mantle round 
The slumb’ring world; while free from toil and care 
All nature seems to rest in soft repose, 

And echo’s voice no more reverberates 
The flying sounds—but sleeps in silence on 
The rocky hill. Then would my wakeful Muse 
Pour on the ear of night her softest lay, 

And on the wings of contemplation borne 
Through times remote, find themes of minstrelsy. 

Time was, when sovereign nature held her reign 
In wild luxuriance and lonely pride; 

While these bright waters roll’d on silently, 

And swept their tribute to the mighty deep; 

When art broke not upon the solitude, 

And commerce knew not, heard not of these vast, 
These rude and lonely wilds!—Then freely roamed 
The surly bear, the nimble footed deer, 

The antlered elk, the lordly buffalo, 

The lofty eagle—freedom 7 s fav’rite bird, 

Sat on his native rock; and from the bough 
Of hoary sycamore, the red-bird pour’d 
His softest, sweetest note— 

Then chang’d the scene 


THOMAS J. LEES 


33 


Along the stream the swarthy Indian sped 
His fragile bark canoe, or trunk of tree, 

Carved out by artist rude, that lightly skim’d 
The liquid way, fairy of the flood: 

"With cheerful heart he spread the snare—and oft 
He drew the finny race for his repast; 

His noble soul was light and free as air; 

He thirsted not for wealth—nor did he know 
The curse of poverty—but on his brow, 

Stern independence sat— 

Another change— 

The sordid sons of Europe came—they brought 
Their gew-gaws, wares and merchandize—a thirst 
For wealth—new laws—new customs—and new crimes 
They brought their liquid poison, and they bade 
The Indian drink; he took the cup, he drank, 

It fired his brain—while mutual jealousy 
Roused up the stormy passions of the soul; 

And many a bosom burn’d with deadly wrath. 

Loud pealed the war note through the dreary wilds— 
They flew to battle; and the crimson flow’d— 

The fires of death lit up the forest gloom, 

While horrid screams rung on the midnight gale, 
Which chill’d the whitemen’s blood. 

Another change. 

The Indian’s hopes were withered, and he turn’d 
Away—he curs’d the day the whiteman set 
His foot upon the shore. With heartfelt grief, 

He left his native land, and of his hills, 

His grots, his woods and waterfalls he took 
A long, a last farewell. Now gentle peace 
Waves her mild sceptre o’er these happy realms. 

But say, 0 dark oblivion: thou foe 
To human fame: why hast thou sunk in night? 

Why hast thou buried in forgetfulness 
The long sought story of that vent’rous race 
Who first explored these solitary woods? 

Behold yon ancient mound, with stately trees 
That grow luxuriant o’er the mouldering bones, 


34 


STORIES AND VERSE OP WEST VIRGINIA 


And wasting ashes of the unknown dead; 

Oft does the stranger ask, but ask in vain— 

Who rear’d this wond’rous mound? whose bones are 
these ? 

How came they here? and why no record given? 

Fain would the contemplative mind unveil 

The deeds of dark antiquity, and drag 

Them into day; but sullen mystery 

Wrapt in oblivion’s shroud, sits there enthroned; 

Nor aught reveals, save that the curious world 
Shall never know who rear’d the wond’rous mound. 
Time rolls away; and States and Empires rise— 

March on to conquest, glory, wealth and pow’r; 

Inflict upon the world their deadliest curse, 

Then fall: their boasted grandeur wrapt in ruins:— 
Successive millions of our shortliv’d race 
Spring up—then die, and crumble into dust; 

Their mem’ry perished in forgetfulness. 


SLAVERY 


On seeing a drove of Africans pass through a certain 
to ion in Virginia—Bound in Chains. 


Hark to the clang! what means that sound? 

’Tis slavery shakes its chains—* 

Man dragging Man in fetters bound, 

And this where freedom reigns! 

Say, what have these poor wretches done, 
That chains their lot should be? 

Are they not punish’d to atone 
For some great robbery? 





THOMAS J. LEES 


35 


Or deeds of bloody homicide, 

Or treason ’gainst the land? 

Ah! no—to pamper human pride, 

Man chains his fellow Man! 

God’s noblest work, through thirst for gold, 
Is thus to market driven, 

Like herds of cattle, bought and sold, 

By Christians! heirs of heaven! 

Great God! does such hypocrisy 
Not call for vengeance due? 

Shall Freemen shout for Liberty, 

And act the tyrant too! 

Columbia’s Sons, why will ye nurse 
The serpent on your soil? 

Why hug ye that which threats to curse 
The fruit of all your toil? 

Think ye that heav’n will bless the hand 
That deals in human blood?- 

It cannot be—this impious land 
Must feel the wrath of God! 


WHEELING HILL 

Sound my harp, the days of yore, 

When the Indians fierce and rude, 
Roaming through the darksome wood 
Bathed the tomahawk in gore; 

When along Ohio’s stream, 

War whoop, and the savage scream 
Echoed wild from rock and hill; 

Then the whitemen’s blood would thrill. 




36 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Nightly glow’d the death-lit fire, 

Gory weapons gleam’d around: 

While the war song’s dreadful choir 
Made the dreary wilds resound; 

Yonder hill, whose crest on high, 

Proudly fronts the orient morn, 

Oft has rung with savage cry, 

And the whitemen’s clanging horn. 

Oft on that majestic peak 
Break the rolling clouds of heaven 

And the fork’d lightning’s streak 
Many an aged oak has riven— 

There a bold and craggy steep, 

Stands a giant wrapped in gloom, 

Frowning o’er the valley deep 
Once as dark as nature’s tomb. 

Through that vale there flows a stream, 
Wand’ring round the mountain side, 

Where the day-god’s golden beam 
Seldom comes to kiss the tide,— 

When the zephyr seems to sleep 
Gently on the streamlet’s breast, 

Darkly do the tempests sweep 

O’er that bleak and rugged crest,— 

View’d from its romantic height, 

Scenes of grandeur far and wide, 

Deck’d in nature’s richest pride, 

Burst upon the wandering sight; 

Once a hunter spur’d afar, 

From unequal savage war; 

O’er the hills and mountains rude 
Swift the Indian host pursued! 


THOMAS J. LEES 


37 


Onward still he sped his way, 

Nearer still the foemen drew, 
While the whizzing bullets flew; 

Yet they missed the flying prey! 

Now his foes around him stood 
On the steep and jutting rock— 
Many a lifted tomahawk 

Flashed, that moment sure of blood. 

Each now aim’d the deadly blow, 
Quick the steed and rider sprang 
Down the precipice below; 

Crash on crash the echo rang. 

O’er the rocks he thunder’d down, 
Swiftly to the deepest dell; 

While the foemen at the sound, 
Shrunk—and gave a horrid yell! 

Yet that hunter lived to tell 

Whence he leapt and where he fell; 
Oft in battle met the foe. 

Oft return’d the avenging blow! 


ALEXANDER SCOTT WITHERS. 


A lexander Scott Withers, son of Enoch K. and Jan- 
net Chinn Withers, was born at Green Meadows, 
near Warrenton, Virginia, on October 12, 1772. 
His father was of English ancestry. His mother was the 
daughter of Thomas Chinn and Jannet Scott—the latter 
a first cousin of Sir Walter Scott. 

From childhood, Alexander Scott Withers was an 
earnest and brilliant student. It is said that he read Vir¬ 
gil when he was but ten years of age. After completing 
his academic training at Washington College, he studied 
law at William and Mary College. He was admitted to 
the bar in Warrenton, where he practiced his profession 
for several years. After the death of his father in 1813, 
he abandoned his law practice and devoted his time to 
the management of his mother’s plantation. 

In 1815, he married Miss Melinda Fisher. About 
twelve years later, he moved with his family to Harri¬ 
son county, West Virginia, where he collected much of 
the material for his “Chronicles of Border Warfare,” 
which was published at Clarksburg, in 1831. The pub¬ 
lisher received “ample recompense for his work, as he 
had subscribers for the full edition issued,” and then 
managed to fail in business and the author received noth¬ 
ing except two or three copies of his book. 

Thomas W. Field writes of the “Chronicles of Bor¬ 
der Warfare”: “The author took much pains to be 
authentic and his chronicles are considered by Western 
antiquarians to form the best collection of frontier life 
and Indian warfare that has been printed.” 

Reuben Gold Thwaites, editor of the second edition 
of Wither’s “Chronicles of Border Warfare” (1895) 
says: ‘ ‘ The author w r as a faithful recorder of local tra¬ 

dition. Among his neighbors were sons and grandsons of 
the earlier border heroes, and not a few actual partici¬ 
pants in the later wars. He had access, however, to few 

38 


ALEXANDER SCOTT WITHERS 


39 


contemporary documents. He does not appear to have 
searched for them, for there existed among the pioneer 
historians of the West a respect for tradition as the prime 
source of information, which does not now obtain; to-day, 
we desire first to see the documents of a period, and care 
little for reminiscence, save when it fills a gap in or 
illumines the formal record. The weakness of the tra¬ 
ditional method is well illustrated in Wither’s work. His 
treatment of many of the larger events on the border 
may now be regarded as little else than a thread on which 
to hang annotations; but in most of the local happenings 
which are here recorded he will always, doubtless, remain 
a leading authority—for his informants possessed full 
knowledge of what occurred within their own horizon, 
although having distorted notions regarding affairs be¬ 
yond it.” 

Mr. Withers, some time after the publication of his 
book, went to Missouri, but later decided to return to 
West Virginia, and settled near Weston. 

During the Civil War he was devoted to the Union 
cause. His son, Major Henry W. Withers, served with 
distinction in the Union service in the Twelfth Virginia 
regiment. The death of Mr. Withers occurred on Jan¬ 
uary 23, 1865. 


THE MASSACRE AT FORT SEYBERT 

On the south fork of the South Branch of Potomac, 
in, what is now, the county of Pendleton, was the fort of 
Capt. Sivert. In this fort, the inhabitants of what was 
then called the “Upper Tract,” all sought shelter from 
the tempest of savage ferocity; and at the time the In¬ 
dians appeared before it, there were contained within its 
walls between thirty and forty persons of both sexes and 
of different ages. Among them was Mr. Dyer, (the fath¬ 
er of Col. Dyer now of Pendleton) and his family. On 
the morning of the fatal day, Col. Dyer and his sister left 
the fort for the accomplishment of some object, and al- 



40 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


though no Indians had been seen there for some time, yet 
did they not proceed far, before they came in view of a 
party of forty or fifty Shawanees, going directly toward 
the fort. Alarmed for their own safety, as well as for the 
safety of their friends, the brother and sister endeavored 
by a hasty flight to reach the gate and gain admittance 
into the garrison; but before they could effect this, they 
were overtaken and made captives. 

The Indians rushed immediately to the fort and 
commenced a furious assault on it. Capt. Sivert pre¬ 
vailed, (not without much opposition), on the besieged, 
to forbear firing till he should endeavor to negotiate with, 
and buy off the enemy. With this view, and under the 
protection of a flag he went out, and soon succeeded in 
making the wished for arrangement. When he returned, 
the gates were thrown open, and the enemy admitted. 

No sooner had the money and other articles, stipu¬ 
lated to be given, been handed over to the Indians, than a 
most bloody tragedy was begun to be acted. Arranging 
the inmates of the fort, in two rows, with a space of about 
ten feet between them, two Indians were selected; who 
taking each his station at the head of a row, with their 
tomahawks most cruelly murdered almost every white 
person in the fort; some few, whom caprice or some other 
cause, induced them to spare, were carried into captiv¬ 
ity,—such articles as could be well carried away were 
taken off by the Indians; th£ remainder was consumed, 
with the fort, by fire. 

The course pursued by Capt. Sivert has been sup¬ 
posed to have been dictated by timidity and an ill found¬ 
ed apprehension of danger from the attack. It is cer¬ 
tain that strong opposition was made to it by many; and 
it has been said that his own son raised his rifle to shoot 
him, when he ordered the gates to be thrown open; and 
was only prevented from executing his purpose, by the 
interference of some near to him. Capt. Sivert was also 
supported by many in the plan by which he proposed to 
rid the fort of its assailants: it was known to be weak, 
and incapable of withstanding a vigorous onset; and its 


ALEXANDER SCOTT WITHERS 


41 


garrison was illy supplied with the munitions of war. 
Experience might have taught them, however, the futility 
of any measure of security, founded in a reliance on In¬ 
dian faith, in time of hostility; and in deep and bitter 
anguish, they were made to feel its realization in the 
present instance. 

From Chronicles of Border Warfare. 


JOHN KEARSLEY MITCHELL 

J ohn Kearsley Mitchell was born in Shepherdstown, 
West Virginia, May 12, 1798. He was the son of 
Dr. Alexander Mitchell, a Scotchman, who immi¬ 
grated to the United States in 1786. His mother was a 
relative of Dr. John Kearsley, founder of Christ Church 
Hospital, Philadelphia, and one of the designers of the 
plans for Independence Hall. On the death of his fa¬ 
ther, in 1806, John Kearsley Mitchell was sent to Scot¬ 
land, where he remained for about ten years, during which 
time he attended school at Ayr and at Edinburgh. On his 
return to America, he entered the medical department of 
the University of Pennsylvania, from which he was grad¬ 
uated in 1819. Because of impaired health, he took a 
position as ship surgeon, and made three voyages to 
China and the East Indies. On his return, he engaged 
in the practice of medicine in Philadelphia. He was a 
professor of chemistry from 1826 until 1833 at the Phil¬ 
adelphia Medical Institution; then he accepted a similar 
position at the Franklin Institute. In 1841, he was chosen 
professor of the practice of medicine in Jefferson Medical 
College, a position which he held until his death. 

Dr. Mitchell was a frequent contributor to medical 
journals. He was also the author of several scientific 
and medical works. He occasionally wrote poetry and, 
in 1821, published “Saint Helena, a Poem by a Yankee,” 
and, in 1839, “Indecision, a Tale of the Far West and 
Other Poems.” A reviewer in The Southern Literary 
Messenger (May, 1839) writes in highly complimentary 
terms of Dr. Mitchell’s poems. 

In 1828, Dr. Mitchell married Sarah Matilda Henry, 
by whom he had eight children, one of whom was S. Weir 
Mitchell, the distinguished physician and novelist. The 
death of Dr. Mitchell occurred in Philadelphia, April 4, 
1858. 


42 


JOHN KEARSLEY MITCHELL 


43 


THE NEW AND THE OLD SONG 

A new song should be sweetly sung, 

It goes but to the ear; 

A new song should be sweetly sung, 
For it touches no one near. 

But an old song may be roughly sung; 

The ear forgets its art, 

As comes upon the rudest tongue 
The tribute of the heart. 

A new song should be sweetly sung 
For memory gilds it not; 

It brings not back the strains that rung 
Through childhood’s sunny cot. 

But an old song may be roughly sung, 

It tells of days of glee 
When the boy to his mother clung, 

Or danced on his father's knee. 

On tented fields ’tis welcome still; 

’Tis sweet on the stormy sea, 

In forest wild, on rocky hill 

And away on the prairie-lea:— 

But dearer far the old song, 

When friends we love are nigh, 

And well-known voices, clear and strong, 
Unite in the chorus-cry, 

Of the old song, the old song 
The song of the days of glee, 

When the boy to his mother clung, 

Or danced on his father’s knee. 

Oh, the old song—the old song! 

The song of the days of glee; 

The new songs may be better sung, 

But the good old song for me. 


PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 


P hilip Pendleton Cooke, brother of the well-known 
novelist, John Esten Cooke, and son of John Rogers 
Cooke, a prominent lawyer, was born in Martins- 
burg, West Virginia, October 26, 1816. His father took a 
great interest in his education and personally superin¬ 
tended his reading. At fifteen he entered Princeton, and 
after having been graduated, he studied law with his 
father and was admitted to the bar before he was of age. 
He soon abandoned this profession, however, in order to 
devote himself to literature. His charm of manner, his 
dignity of carriage, his keen intellect, and his brilliancy 
in conversation made a favorable impression upon every¬ 
one who knew him. 

In 1837, he married Anne Corbin, daughter of Judge 
Nelson Burwell. In 1845, he moved to “The Vineyard,” 
an estate of one thousand acres where he became known 
as the Nimrod of the Shenandoah. It is said that while 
he was on a hunting trip when “some beautiful vista 
would open upon his gaze, or some unexpected glory of 
cloud and sky, or some richer garniture or forest would 
appear before him, he would frequently transcribe his 
grateful sensations upon paper, taken out for wadding, 
on the crown of his hat” ( The Southern Literary Messen¬ 
ger, vol. 16, pp. 125-126). Mr. Cooke’s first literary 
work appeared in The Virginian and in The Southern 
Literary Messenger in which also were published a num¬ 
ber of stories; among them “John Carpe,” “The Two 
Country Houses,” “The Gregories of Hackwood,” “The 
Cousin of Andrew Blair,” a number of reveries, and a 
part of a serial entitled “Chevalier Merlin” which he 
did not live to complete. In 1847, he published “Frois¬ 
sart’s Ballads and Other Poems,” in the preface to which 
he says: 

“The motto of my title page—the opening lines of 
the Ricciardetto of the Roman poet and prelate, Forte- 

44 


PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 


45 




guerri—gives an accurate idea of the plan of the Frois¬ 
sart Ballads, as I originally conceived it: 

'A certain freak has got into my head, 

Which I can’t conquer for the life of me, 

Of taking up some history, little read, 

Or known, and writing it in poetry.’ 

‘'The Proem was written whilst my ‘freak’ or pur¬ 
pose was still of this limited character: and it repre¬ 
sents the ballads—not then begun, but spoken of as fin¬ 
ished—as versified transcripts from Froissart. Perhaps, 
if I had carried out this purpose of fidelity to the noble 
old chronicler, my poetry would have been all the better 
for it. I have, however, not done so. 

“ ‘The Master of Bolton,’ and ‘Geoffrey of Tete- 
noire’ are nowhere in Froissart, but stories of my own 

invention. The remaining poems, ‘Orthone,’ ‘Sir 

Peter of Bearn,’ and ‘Our Lady’s Dog,’ are written upon 
the original plan, and as faithful to the text of Froissart 
as the necessities of verse permitted me to make them.” 
them. ’ ’ 

“Florence Vane,” the most popular and musical of 
Mr. Cooke’s verse has appeared in almost every anthology 
of American poetry. It has been set to music, and has 
been translated into a number of foreign languages. 

In 1841, the author wrote to his father: ‘ ‘ Tell Mary 

that the little piece of verse, ‘Florence Vane,’ that I wrote 
tw T o years ago, is getting me an amusing reputation among 
the ladies far and near. Hewitt, the Baltimore composer, 
is about to set it to music. Bussell has done so in New 
York; it has been published in a volume of select Ameri¬ 
can poetry, and last, three persons left here two days ago 
for Ohio and Kentucky, carrying each a copy of it.” 

“Young Rosalie Lee” and “To My Daughter Lily” 
are also popular because of their delicate sentiment. ‘ ‘ The 
Mountains” shows the author at his best as a poet of 
nature. 

What was regarded as a most promising literary 
career was cut short by the untimely death of Mr. Cooke 
at his home, “The Vineyard,” on January 20, 1850. 



46 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


FLORENCE VANE 

I loved thee long and dearly, 
Florence Vane; 

My life’s bright dream, and early 
Hath come again; 

I renew in my fond vision 

My heart’s dear pain, 

My hope, and thy derision, 
Florence Vane; 

The ruin lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 

Where thou didst hark my story, 
At even told,— 

That spot—the hues Elysian 
Of sky and plain— 

I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
In their prime; 

Thy voice excelled the closes 
Of sweetest rhyme; 

Thy heart was as a river 
Without a main. 

Would I had loved thee never, 
Florence Vane l 

But, fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thy glorious clay 

Lieth the green sod under,— 

Alas the day! 

And it boots not to remember 
Thy disdain,— 

To quicken love’s pale ember, 
Florence Vane. 


PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 


47 


The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep; 

May their bloom, in beauty vying, 
Never wane 

Where thine earthly part is lying, 
Florence Vane! 


THE MOUNTAINS 

‘Lowland, your sports are loiu as is your seat; 

The Highland games •and minds are high and great” 

Taylor’s “Braes of Mar.” 


I 

The axle of the Lowland wain 

Goes groaning from the fields of grain: 

The Lowlands suit with craft, and gain. 

Good Ceres, with her plump brown hands, 
And wheaten sheaves that burst their bands, 
Is scornful of the mountain lands. 

But mountain lands, so bare of corn, 

Have that which puts, in turn, to scorn 
The Goddess of the brimming horn. 

Go mark them, when, with tramp and jar, 

Of furious steeds, and flashing car, 

The Thunderer sweeps them from afar. 

Go mark them when their beauty lies 
Drooping and veiled with violet dyes, 
Beneath the light of breathless skies. 

No lands of fat increase may vie 

With their brave wealth—for heart and eye— 

Of loveliness and majesty. 



48 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

II 


I stand upon an upland lawn; 

The river mists are quite withdrawn— 

It is three hours beyond the dawn. 

Autumn works well! but yesterday 
The mountain hues were green and gray; 
The elves have surely passed this way. 

With crimping hand, and frosty lip, 

That merry elfin fellowship, 

Robin and Puck and Numbernip, 

Through the clear night have swiftly plied 
Their tricksy arts of chance, and dyed 
Of all bright hues, the mountain side. 

In an old tale Arabian, 

Sharp hammer-strokes, not dealt by man, 
Startle a slumbering caravan. 

At dawn, the wandering merchants see 
A city, built up gloriously, 

Of jasper, and gold, and porphyry. 

That night-built city of the sands 
Showed not as show our mountain lands, 
Changed in a night by elfin hands. 

We may not find, in all the scene, 

An unchanged bough or leaf, I ween, 

Save of the constant evergreen. 

The maple, on the slope so cool, 

Wears his new motley, like the fool 
Prankt out to lead the games of Yule. 


PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 


49 


Or rather say, that tree of pride 
Stands, in his mantle many-dyed, 

Bold monarch of the mountain side. 

The ash—a fiery chief is he, 

High in the highland heraldry: 

He wears his proud robes gallantly. 

Torch-bearers are the grim black pines— 
Their torches are the flaming vines 
Bright on the mountain's skyward lines. 

The blushing dog-wood, thicketed, 

Marks everywhere the torrent s bed, 

With winding lines of perfect red. 

The oak, so haughty in his green, 

Looks craven in an altered mien, 

And wimples in the air so keen. 

The hickories, tough although they be, 
The chestnut, and the tulip-tree, 

These too have felt the witchery. 

The tree of life, and dusky pine, 

And hemlock, swart and saturnine— 
Staunch like a demon by his mine— 

These still retain a solemn dress; 

But, sombre as they be, no less 
Make portion of the loveliness. 


50 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


YOUNG ROSALIE LEE 

I love to forget ambition, 

And hope, in the mingled thought 
Of valley, and wood, and meadow, 

Where, whilome, my spirit caught 
Affection’s holiest breathings— 

Where under the skies, with me 
Young Rosalie roved, aye drinking 
From joy’s bright Castaly. 

I think of the valley, and river, 

Of the old wood bright with blossoms; 
Of the pure and chastened gladness 
Upspringing in our bosoms. 

I think of the lonely turtle 
So tongued with melancholy; 

Of the hue of the drooping moonlight, 
And the starlight pure and holy, 

Of the beat of a heart most tender, 

The sigh of a shell-tinct lip 
As soft as the land tones wandering 
Far leagues over the ocean deep; 

Of a step as light in its falling 
On the breast of the beaded lea 
As the fall of the faery moonlight 
On the leaf of yon tulip tree. 

I think of these—and the murmur 
Of bird, and katydid, 

Whose home is the graveyard cypress 
Whose goblet the honey-reed. 

And then I weep! for Rosalie 
Has gone to her early rest; 

And the green-lipped reed and the daisy 
Suck sweets from her maiden breast. 


THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 
homas Dunn English was born in Philadelphia, 



1 Pennsylvania, June 29, 1819, of Norman-Irish 
ancestry. At an early age he had planned to 
study law, but on account of his father’s failure in 
business, he entered upon a journalistic career when he 
was only sixteen years of age. In 1839, he was grad- 
• uated in medicine from the University of Pennsylvania, 
and from 1852 until 1857 practiced his profession in 
Logan County, West Virginia. Dr. English was also a 
well known politician. In 1863-64, he was a member 
of the New Jersey legislature and from 1891 to 1895 
represented the Essex district in Congress. 

There is in Logan County a tree under which it is 
said that Dr. English composed his famous song, 
‘‘Ben Bolt.” Unfortunately the story belongs in the 
same class as the even better known Washington cherry 
tree story, as ‘‘Ben Bolt” was written nine years 
before its author became a resident of Logan County. 
In 1843, when Dr. English was asked by Nathaniel 
Parker Willis to write a poem for The New York Mirror , 
he wrote the now famous “Ben Bolt,” which appeared 
without a title and with the signature, T. D. E. The 
music of “Ben Bolt is an adaptation of a German mel¬ 
ody.” The song was first sung by Nelson F. Kneass, 
who was a member of a company that produced the 
drama, “The Battle of Buena Vista,” and who sang it 
as a part of the performance. The drama was not a suc¬ 
cess, and has long been forgotten, but the song took the 
whole English-speaking world by storm. A race horse, 
a ship, and a steamboat were named for it. Dr. Eng¬ 
lish remarked some years later, “The ship was wrecked, 
the steamboat was blown up, and the horse turned out to 
be a ‘plater’ and never won anything.” It is said that 
it was always a matter of chagrin to Dr. English that 
“Ben Bolt” received more commendation than anything 


51 


3 


54 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


GAULEY RIVER 

The waters of Gauley, 

Wild waters and brown, 
Through the hill-bounded valley, 
Sweep onward and down; 

Over rocks, over shallows, 
Through shaded ravines, 
Where the beautiful hallows 
Wild, varying scenes; 

Where the tulip tree scatters 
Its blossoms in Spring, 

And the bank-swallow spatters 
With foam its sweet wing; 
Where the dun deer is stooping 
To drink from the spray, 

And the fish-eagle swooping 
Bears down on his prey— 
Brown waters of Gauley, 

That sweep past the shore— 
Dark waters of Gauley 
That move evermore. 

Brown waters of Gauley, 

At eve on your tide, 

My log canoe slowly 
And careless I guide. 

The world and its troubles 
I leave on the shore, 

I seek the wild torrent 
And shout to its roar. 

The pike glides before me 
In impulse of fear, 

In dread of the motion 
That speaks of the spear— 
Proud lord of these waters, 

He fears lest I be 
A robber rapacious 
And cruel as he. 


THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 


55 


He is off to his eddy, 

In wait for his prey; 

He is off to his ambush, 

And there let him stay. 

Brown waters of Gauley, 

Impatient ye glide, 

To seek the Kanawha, 

And mix with its tide— 

Past hillside and meadow, 

Past cliff and morass, 

Receiving the tribute, 

Of streams as ye pass, 

Ye heed not the being, 

Who floats on your breast, 

Too earnest your hurry, 

Too fierce your unrest. 

His, his is the duty 
As plain as your own: 

But he feels a dullness 
Ye never have known. 

He pauses in action, 

He faints and gives o’er; 

Brown waters of Gauley, 

Ye move evermore. 

Brown waters of Gauley, 

My fingers I lave 
In the foam that lies scattered 
Upon your brown wave. 

From sunlight to shadow, 

To shadow more dark, 

’Neath the low-bending birches 
I guide my rude barque; 

Through the shallows whose brawling 
Falls full on my ear, 

Through the sharp, mossy masses, 

My vessel I steer. 

What care I for honors, 


56 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


The world might bestow, 

What care I for gold, 

With its glare and its glow; 

The world and its troubles 
I leave on the shore 
Of the waters of Gauley, 

That move evermore. 

The Southern Literary Messenger, 1856. 


RAFTING ON THE GUYANDOTTE 

Who at danger never laughed, 

Let him ride upon a raft 

Down Guyan, when from the drains 

Pours the flood of many rains, 

And a stream no plummet gauges 
In a furious freshet rages. 

With a strange and rapturous fear, 
Rushing water he will hear; 

Woods and cliff-sides darting by, 

These shall terribly glad his eye. 

He shall find his life-blood leaping 
Faster with the current’s sweeping. 

Feel his brain with frenzy swell; 

Hear his voice in sudden yell 
Rising to a joyous scream 
O’er the roar of the raging stream. 
Never a horseman bold who strides 
Mettled steed and headlong rides, 

With a loose and flowing rein, 

On a bare and boundless plain; 

Never a soldier in a fight, 

When the strife was at its height, 
Charging through the slippery gore 
’Mid bayonet-gleam and cannon-roar; 
Never a sailor helm in hand, 

Out of sight of dangerous land. 

With the storm-winds driving clouds 



THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 


And howling through the spars and shrouds— 
Feels such wild delight as he 
On the June rise riding free. 

Thrice a hundred logs together 
Float as lightly as a feather; 

On the freshet’s foaming flow. 

Swift as arows shoot, they go 
Past the overhanging trees. 

Jutting rocks—beware of these! 

Over rapids, round the crooks, 

Over eddies that fill the nooks, 

Swirling, whirling, hard to steer. 

Manned bv those who know no fear. 

w 

Tough-armed raftsmen guide each oar, 
Keeping off the mass from shore; 

"While between the toiling hands 
Mid-raft there the pilot stands, 

Watching the course of the rushing sluice 
From the top of the dirt-floored, rough caboose. 
Well it is, in the seething hiss 
Of a boiling, foaming flood like this, 

That the oars are stoutly boarded. 

And each log so safely corded 

That we might ride on the salt-sea tide, 

Or over a cateract safely glide. 

If the pins from hickory riven 
Were not stout and firmly driven. 

Were the cross-trees weak and limber. 

Woe befall your raft of timber! 

If the withes and staples start 
And the logs asunder part, 

Off each raftsman then would go 
In the seething, turbid flow, 

And the torrent quick would bear him 
To a place where they could spare him. 

Brawny though he be of limb. 

Full of life and nerve and vim. 

Like a merman though he swim. 


58 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Little hope would be for him. 

Hither the logs would go and thither; 

But the jolly raftsman—whither? 

Now we pass the hills that throw 
Glassy shadows far below; 

Pass the leaping, trembling rills, 
Ploughing channels in the hills; 

Pass the cornfields green that glide 
(We seem moveless on the tide) 

In a belt of verdure wide 
Skirting us on either side. 

Now a cabin meets us here, 

Coming but to disappear. 

Now a lean and russet deer 
Perks his neck and pricks his ear; 

Then, as we rise up before him, 

Feels some danger looming o’er him, 
Thinks the dark mass bodes him ill, 

Turns and scurries up the hill. 

Now some cattle, at the brink 
Stooping of the flood to drink, 

Lift their heads awhile to gaze 
In a sleepy, dull amaze; 

Then they, lest we leap among them, 

Start as though a gadfly stung them. 

Past us in a moment fly 

Fields of maize and wheat and rye; 

Dells and forest-mounds and meadows 
Float away like fleeting shadows; 

But the raftsmen see not these— 

Sharp they look for sunken trees, 

Stumps with surface rough and ragged, 
Sandstone reefs with edges jagged, 
Hidden rocks at the rapid’s head, 
New-made shoals in the river’s bed; 
Steering straight as they pass the comb 
Of the sunken dam and its cradle of foam. 
Now through narrow channel darting, 


THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 


59 


Now upon a wide reach starting, 

Now they turn with shake and quiver 
In a short bend of the river. 

Tasking strength to turn the oar 
That averts them from the shore. 

Ah ! They strike. No ! missed it barely; 

They have won their safetv fairlv. 

Now they’re in the strait chute's center; 

Now the rapids wild they enter. 

Whoop! that last quick run has brought her 
To the eddying, wide hack-water. 

There's the saw-mill!—now for landing; 

Now to bring her up all standing! 

Steady! brace yourselves! a jar 
Thrills her, stranded on the bar. 

Out with lines! make fast, and rest 
On the broad Ohio’s breast! 

Where’s the fiddle? Bovs, be gav! 

Eighty miles in half a day 
Never a pin nor cross-tie started, 

Never a saw-log from us parted. 

Never a better journey run 
From the morn to set of sun. 

Oh, what pleasure! how inviting! 

Oh, what rapture! how exciting! 

If among your friends there be 
One who something rare would see, 

One who dullness seeks to change 
For a feeling new and strange, 

To the loggers’ camp-ground send him, 

To a ride like this commend him— 

Ride that pain and sorrow dulces, 

Stirring brains and quickening pulses, 

Making him a happier man 

Who has coursed the fierce Guyan 

When the June-rain freshet swells it, 

And to yellow rage impels it. 

— Appleton’s Journal. 


58 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Little hope would be for him. 

Hither the logs would go and thither; 

But the jolly raftsman—wdiither? 

Now we pass the hills that throw 
Glassy shadows far below; 

Pass the leaping, trembling rills, 
Ploughing channels in the hills; 

Pass the cornfields green that glide 
(We seem moveless on the tide) 

In a belt of verdure wide 
Skirting us on either side. 

Now a cabin meets us here, 

Coming but to disappear. 

Now a lean and russet deer 
Perks his neck and pricks his ear; 

Then, as we rise up before him, 

Feels some danger looming o’er him, 
Thinks the dark mass bodes him ill, 

Turns and scurries up the hill. 

Now some cattle, at the brink 
Stooping of the flood to drink, 

Lift their heads awhile to gaze 
In a sleepy, dull amaze; 

Then they, lest we leap among them, 

Start as though a gadfly stung them. 

Past us in a moment fly 

Fields of maize and wheat and rye; 

Dells and forest-mounds and meadows 
Float away like fleeting shadows; 

But the raftsmen see not these— 

Sharp they look for sunken trees, 

Stumps with surface rough and ragged, 
Sandstone reefs with edges jagged, 
Hidden rocks at the rapid’s head, 
New-made shoals in the river’s bed; 
Steering straight as they pass the comb 
Of the sunken dam and its cradle of foam. 
Now through narrow channel darting, 


THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 


59 


Now upon a wide reach starting, 

Now they turn with shake and quiver 
In a short bend of the river. 

Tasking strength to turn the oar 
That averts them from the shore. 

Ah ! They strike. No ! missed it barely ; 

%/ 7 

They have won their safetv fairly. 

Now they're in the strait chute’s center: 

Now the rapids wild they enter. 

Whoop ! that last quick run has brought her 
To the eddying, wide back-water. 

There’s the saw-mill!—now for landing; 

Now to bring her up all standing! 

Steady! brace yourselves! a jar 
Thrills her, stranded on the bar. 

Out with lines! make fast, and rest 
On the broad Ohio’s breast! 

Where’s the fiddle? Boys, be gay! 

Eighty miles in half a day 
Never a pin nor cross-tie started, 

Never a saw-log from us parted, 

Never a better journey run 
From the morn to set of sun. 

Oh, what pleasure! how inviting! 

Oh, what rapture! how exciting! 

If among your friends there be 
One who something rare would see, 

One who dullness seeks to change 
For a feeling new and strange, 

To the loggers’ camp-ground send him, 

To a ride like this commend him— 

Ride that pain and sorrow dulces. 

Stirring brains and quickening pulses, 

Making him a happier man 

Who has coursed the fierce Guy an 

When the June-rain freshet swells it, 

And to yellow rage impels it. 

— Appleton’s Journal. 


DAVID HUNTER STROTHER 
(Porte Crayon) 

F ew West Virginians have had a more interesting 
career than had David Hunter Strother, soldier, 
author and artist. He was the son of Colonel John 
and Elizabeth Pendleton (Hunter) Strother, and was 
born in Martinsburg, West Virginia, September 26, 1816. 
He received his academic education at the Old Stone 
Schoolhouse, Martinsburg, and at Washington College, 

now Washington and 
Jefferson College. At 
a very early age he gave 
evidence of unusual ar¬ 
tistic ability. It is said 
that, when he was three 
years old, he produced a 
picture representing his 
father’s burning house, 
in which the likenesses 
of the spectators were 
distinctly recognizable. 
After spending two years 
in Philadelphia as a 
student of art under 
Samuel F. B. Morse, he 
went in 1840 to Europe, 
where he continued his 
art studies in Paris and 
in Italy. He returned lo the United States in 1843. In 
addition to producing several pictures of decided merit, 
he illustrated a number of books, among them, ‘ ‘ Swallow 
Barn” by John P. Kennedy. 

He made his first appearance as an author in 1850, 
under the nom de plume of Porte Crayon, in one of 
the earliest numbers of Harper’s Magazine, and soon be¬ 
came widely known as the author and illustrator of a 

60 





DAVID HUNTER STROTHER 


61 


most delightful series of sketches, the “Blackwater 
Chronicles” and “Virginia Illustrated.” He later con¬ 
tributed other sketches to Harper’s which added to his 
reputation as an author and artist. 

Like his father, General Strother was strongly op¬ 
posed to slavery and when the Civil War began, he en¬ 
listed in the Union Army with the rank of captain. He 
was attached to the Topographical Corps, where he rend¬ 
ered very valuable service. He performed every duty 
assigned him with such fidelity and distinction that he 
was promoted, time after time, and retired at the 
close of the war with the rank of brevet brigadier-gen¬ 
eral. Although he was engaged in about thirty battles 
and skirmishes, he never received a wound. After his 
retirement from the Army, he returned to his honte at 
Berkeley Springs, where he resumed his literary pur¬ 
suits. During the war he had kept a careful record of 
daily events, and his “Personal Recollections of the 
War,” which ran for three years in Harper’s Magazine, 
is one of the most valuable contributions to the literature 
of this period. His freedom from prejudice, his fair and 
friendly attitude towards his opponents and his delight¬ 
ful humor, combined with an unusually pleasing style, 
charmed his readers. 

In 1879, President Hayes appointed General Strother 
as consul general to Mexico, where he was instru¬ 
mental in securing recognition by the United States of 
the Diaz regime, then but recently established. On his 
return to the United States in 1885, he resided in Charles 
Town, West Virginia, where he died March 8, 1888. 

General Strother was twice married. His first wife 
was Ann Dovne Wolfe, by whom he had a daughter, 
Emily, who became the wife of John Brisben Walker. 
His second wife was Mary Eliot Hunter, by whom he had 
two sons, John and David Hunter. 


€2 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


THE JOURNEY TO CANAAN 
(Porte Crayon) 

In Randolph County, Virginia, there is a tract of 
country containing from seven to nine hundred square 
miles, entirely uninhabited, and so inaccessible that it 
has rarely been penetrated even by the most adventur¬ 
ous. The settlers on its borders speak of it with dread, 
as an ill-omened region, filled with bears, panthers, im¬ 
passable laurel-brakes, and dangerous precipices. Sto¬ 
ries are told of hunters having ventured too far, becoming 
entangled, and perishing in its intricate labyrinths. The 
desire of daring the unknown dangers of this mysterious 
region stimulated a party of gentlemen, who were at 
Towers’ Mountain House on a trouting excursion, to 
undertake its exploration in June, 1851. They did actu¬ 
ally penetrate the country as far as the Falls of the 
Blackwater, and returned with marvelous accounts of the 
savage grandeur of its scenery, and the quantities of 
game and fish to be found there. One of the party wrote 
an entertaining narrative of their adventures and suffer¬ 
ings, filling a stout volume—which every body ought to 
read. 

During the winter of 1852, several of the same party, 
with other friends, planned a second trip, to be under¬ 
taken on the first of June following. At that date, so 
fully was the public mind occupied with filibustering and 
president-making, that the notes of preparation for this 
important expedition were scarcely heard beyond the 

corporate limits of the little town of M-, in the Valley 

of Virginia. Even in this contracted circle the excite¬ 
ment was principally confined to the planners themselves, 
while the public looked on with an apathy and unconcern 
altogether unaccountable. Indeed, some narrow minded 
persons went so far as to say that it was nothing but a 
scheme of idleness, and advised the young gentlemen to 
stick to their professions, and let the bears alone. But, 



DAVID HUNTER STROTHER 


63 


as may be supposed, all such met the usual fate of gratui¬ 
tous counselors who advise people against their inclina¬ 
tions. 

In the daily meetings which were held for five months 
previous to the date fixed for their departure, our friends 
discussed freely and at great length everything that ap¬ 
pertained, or that could in any way appertain, to the 
subject in view, from the elevation of the mountains and 
the course of rivers, down to the quality of a percussion- 
cap and the bend of a fish-hook. They became students 
of maps and geological reports; read Izaak Walton’s 
“Complete Angler” and “Le Guide et Hygiene des 
Chasseurs;” consulted Count Rumford and Doctor Kitch¬ 
ener, and experimented largely in the different kinds of 
aliments most proper for the sustenance of the human 
system. Mr. Penn, the author, copied at length a recipe 
for making cat-fish soup, assuring his friends that, when 
they were surfeited with venison and trout, this dish 
would afford them a delightful change. Mr. Porte Cray¬ 
on, the artist, also furnished frequent designs for hunt¬ 
ing-coats, caps, knapsacks, and leggings, modeled, for the 
most part, from those of the French army in Algiers. 
“For,” said he, “the French are the most scientific peo¬ 
ple in the world; and as they have paid more attention 
to the equipment of their army than any other, every 
thing they adopt is presumed to be perfect of its kind.” 

The result of all this studying and talking was, that 
every one differed from his friend, and equipped himself 
after his own fashion. The commissary department sud¬ 
denly concluded that biscuit and bacon were the most 
substantial, portable, and palatable articles of food known 
to the dwellers south of the Potomac, and accordingly 
made arrangements to have ample supplies of both ready 
for the occasion. 

With the opening of spring the buds began to swell 
and the blue-birds to w'arble, and the zeal of our adven¬ 
turers kept pace with the season, so that by the first of 
April all were ready, full equipped, “straining like grey¬ 
hounds in the slip.” The intolerable vacuum between 


64 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


this and the starting-day might be graphically illustrated 
by leaving half a dozen blank pages; but as such a proced¬ 
ure might be misunderstood, or characterized as clap¬ 
trap,it may be preferable to fill up the blank by introduc¬ 
ing the dramatis personae who are to figure in the fol¬ 
lowing narrative. 

Mr. Penn, an author of some distinction, has already 
been mentioned. He is gaunt and tall, with distinguish¬ 
ed air and manners, flowing and graceful gestures, prom¬ 
inent and expressive eye, indicating, according to phrenol¬ 
ogy, a great command of language. In this case, how¬ 
ever, the science was at fault, for when Penn got fairly 
started in discourse he had no command over his lan¬ 
guage at all. It poured forth in an irresistible torrent, 
carrying away the speaker himself, and overwhelming or 
putting to flight his audience. 

Mr. Dindon, a fine, athletic sportsman, not a dandia¬ 
cal popper at quails and hares, but a real Nimrod, a slay¬ 
er of wild turkeys and deer, to whom the excitement of 
the chase was as the breath of his nostrils, and who some¬ 
times forgot even that in his keen appreciation of the 
poetry of forest life. He was never known either to be 
wearied in a hunt or silenced in a debate. 

Mr. Jones was somewhat inclined to be stout, not to 
say fat. Mr. J. was equally fond of rural sports and per¬ 
sonal comforts. Ambitious of being considered a thor¬ 
oughgoing sportsman, he kept the best dog and the most 
beautiful gun in the district. He frequently appeared 
covered with his hunting accoutrements, followed by his 
dog, and generally went out alone. Prying persons re¬ 
marked that his game-bag was usually fuller when he 
went out than when he returned. Dindon, who was know¬ 
ing in these matters, always said that J. was a humbug; 
that all this apparent fondness for the chase was a sham; 
that Jones, as soon as he got out of sight of town, found 
some shady place, ate the dinner that stuffed the game- 
bag, and went to sleep; when he woke, would drag him¬ 
self through a thicket hard by, muddy his boots in a 
swamp, and returned with the marks of severe fatigue 


DAVID HUNTER STROTHER 


65 


and determined hunting upon him, and with whatever 
game he might be able to purchase from straggling ur¬ 
chins or old negroes who had been lucky with their traps. 
For the rest, Jones had some rare companionable quali¬ 
ties. He could give a joke with enviable point and readi¬ 
ness, and take one with like grace and good-humor. 

The sprightly sketches which illuminate this unskill¬ 
ful narrative are the most appropriate and shall be the 
only introduction of our friend, Porte Crayon. He has 
rendered the subjects with great truthfulness, and has 
exhibited even some tenderness in the handling of them. 
If he has nothing extenuated, he has, at least, set down 
naught in malice. Porte, indeed, modestly remarks that 
his poor abilities were entirely inadequate to do justice 
either to the sublimity of the natural scenery or the pre¬ 
posterous absurdity of the human species on that mem¬ 
orable expedition. 

Mr. Smith, a gentleman of imposing presence, of few 
words, but an ardent and determined sportsman, and a 
zealous promoter of the expedition, completes the cata¬ 
logue. 

Sometime during the month of May, X.M.C. (for cer¬ 
tain reason his initials only are used), an accomplished 
and talented gentleman residing at a distance from 
M-, received a letter which ran as follows: 

“Dear X.,—We have fixed upon the 1st of 
June to start for the Canaan country. Our 
party will consist of Dindon, Jones, Smith, your 
old friend Penn, and myself. Can you join us ? 

If so, give us immediate notice, and set about 
making your preparations without delay. I 
w r ould recommend to you to procure the follow¬ 
ing equipments: a water-proof knapsack, fishing- 
tackle, and a gun; a belt with pistols—a revolv¬ 
er would be preferable, in case of a conflict with 
a panther; a hunting-knife for general purposes 
—a good ten-inch blade, sharp and reliable; it 
will be useful for cleaning fish, dressing game, 
and may serve you in turn when a bear gets you 



66 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


down in a laurel-brake. Store your knapsack 
with an extra pair of shoes, a change of raiment, 
such as wall resist water and dirt to the last ex¬ 
tremity, a pair of leggings to guard against rat¬ 
tlesnakes, and the following eatables: one dozen 
biscuits, one pound of ham, one pound of ground 
coffee, salt, pepper, and condiments. This will 
be the private store of each person; the public 
supplies will be carried out on horses. 

“The place of rendezvous is the Berkeley 
Springs; the day the 31st of May. 

Yours in haste, Porte Crayon. ” 

The corresponding committee had the gratification 
of receiving a favorable reply to the foregoing, “X. 
will certainly come.” All right; the party is made up. 
The last of May has come. Crayon, in full hunting cos¬ 
tume, is standing on the portico of the great hotel at the 
Berkeley Springs. Messrs. Jones and Smith have ar¬ 
rived; their equipments have been examined and pro¬ 
nounced unexceptionable. Here comes X. What a pair 
of leggings ! And there’s Penn with him, in a blue jacket 
out at the elbow, with a rod like Don Quixote’s lance. 

“Ah, gentlemen! well met,” shouted Penn, as they 
approached. “You see before you a personification of 
Prince Hal, at a time when he kept rather low company. ’ ’ 
Quoth Jones, ‘ ‘ He looks more like Poins on a thieving ex¬ 
pedition.” 

“Ah! my fat friend, are you there? glad to see you. 
I have a rod here, gentlemen, that will make you envious. 
See how superbly balanced! what a spring it has! the 
very thing for brook-fishing, for whipping the smaller 
streams. And then see how easily carried.” Suiting 
the action to the word, he unjointed it, and slipped it into 
a neat case, portable, light and elegant. 11 1 procured one 
of the same sort for Smith when I was in New York. I 
will show you also a supply of artificial flies, ’ ’ continued 
Penn, drawing a leather case from his knapsack, “and a 
fine bug calculated for the largest sized trout.” 

Here he produced a bug, which renewed the aston- 


DAVID HUNTER STROTHER 


67 


ishment and hilarity of the company. 

“What is it for?” “What sort of creature is it?” 
“What does it represent?” shouted one and all. 

“I have not dipped into entomology lately, but I 
have been assured that this bug is calculated to take none 
but the largest fish. No small fish will approach it, from 
personal apprehension; and no trout under two-and- 
twenty inches in length would venture to swallow it.’ ’ 

“If I were called upon to classify that bug,” said 
Jones, “I would call it a chimera; in the vernacular, 
humbug!” 

“Come to supper,” said Porte. “We start at two 
o’clock to-night by the train.” 

From The Virginia Canaan. 


HENRY BEDINGER 


H enry Bedinger, son of the Revolutionary hero, Dan¬ 
iel Bedinger, and Sarah Rutherford Bedinger, was 
born at Bedford, near Shepherdstown, West Vir¬ 
ginia, in 1812. After receiving a liberal classical educa¬ 
tion, he studied law and practiced his profession in Shep¬ 
herdstown and in Charles Town. In 1845, he succeeded 
his partner and brother-in-law, George Rust, as repre¬ 
sentative in Congress and was re-elected for a second 
term. He was an eloquent speaker, and an exceptionally 
able debater, and was called the Eagle of Harpers Ferry. 
In 1853, he was appointed charge d’ affaires to Den¬ 
mark, and was later resident minister. He was in¬ 
strumental in securing the Skager Rack and Cattegat 
Treaty, by which Denmark agreed to abolish the sound 
dues. Throughout his distinguished career as a dip¬ 
lomat, he thought longingly of his home and his friends 
in his own county, and it was with great personal satis¬ 
faction that he laid aside his public duties and returned to 
Shepherdstown. In his honor the citizens of the town gave 
a great demonstration, one of the features of which was 
a barbecue. Only a short time after he received his wel¬ 
come home, he contracted pneumonia and on November 
26, 1858, after an illness of only five days, he died at his 
home in Shepherdstown. His keen intellect, and his 
brilliant powers as an orator, combined with rare per¬ 
sonal charm, had won for him a host of friends and ad¬ 
mirers, who felt that his early death was a great loss, not 
only to his family and to his friends but to the Nation. 

Mr. Bedinger was twice married. His first wife 
was Miss Rust, and his second wife was Miss Caroline 
Lawrence, of Flushing, Long Island. 


68 


HENRY BEDINGER 


69 


TO THE POTOMAC RIVER 
By the Exile—Not of Erin 


Wee Potomac, mid the mountains 
Prattling, toddling like a child, 
Nourished by the singing fountains, 
Feeding thee with music wild. 

Strong Potomac, adolescent, 

Rushing recklessly along, 

Or, like youth when love is present, 
Rippling with a dreamy song. 

Grand Potomac, monarch River, 
Claiming tribute everywhere, 

From thy vassals who deliver, 

Willingly, each one his share. 

Noble River, onward flowing, 

Through rugged pass, or quiet glade, 
Where the grim old forests growing 
Gloom thy waters with their shade. 

Softly flowing—moving only, 

Where the fertile meadow teems, 
Roaring through the mountains lonely, 
Where the eagle soars and screams. 

Gently now r and calm as maiden, 
Undisturbed by love, may be, 

Now, with wu’ath and fury laden, 
Whirling madly to the sea. 

Now r thy full, free volume rolling, 

Where the village spire ascends, 

Now, of city bells the tolling 
With thy softer music blends. 



70 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


In thine anger, calling loudly 
To the rocks thy shores upon, 

But in silence marching proudly 
By the tomb of Washington. 

Noble River! I am praying 
Once again thy banks to see, 

Where from morn till evening straying 
My young footsteps wont to be. 

Where, with one, since passed to heaven 
I have culled such precious flowers, 

As alas! are rarely given 
To this weary life of ours. 

Ah, when this sad life is ended— 

This dull dream of pain is o’er— 

When my heart with dust is blended 
Let me rest upon thy shore. 


— Copenhagen, March 28, 1858. 


Ciuil IDar 


and 

Reconstruction Period 


(1861 -1871) 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


R ebecca Harding Davis, daughter of Richard and 
Rachel Leet (Wilson) Harding, was born at Wash¬ 
ington, Pennsylvania, June 24, 1831. While she 
was quite young, her family moved to Alabama and later 
to Wheeling, West Virginia, where she lived until her 
marriage, March 4, 1863 to L. Clark Davis, a prominent 
newspaper man who later became editor of the Philadel¬ 
phia Inquirer and the Philadelphia Public Ledger. 

Her first story, ‘"Life in the Iron Mills, was publish¬ 
ed anonymously in The Atlantic Monthly in 1861, and 
won for the author immediate recognition as a writer of 
rare ability who possessed graphic descriptive power and 
a remarkably keen sense of observation. Like George 
Eliot's “Scenes of Clerical Life,” “Life in the Iron 
Mills” occasioned conjectures as to its author. Many 
readers thought the writer a man because of the style 
of the story, in which the labor problem made its first 
appearance in American fiction. It is said that had 
Emile Zola been before the public at the time that “Life 
in the Iron Mills” was written, Miss Harding would have 
been accused of imitating him; “for to the reader of to¬ 
day—and this is good evidence of her inborn talent as a 
writer—there is a suggestion of the trained skill of the 
French author in the unconscious art of her method of 
telling the story. The minute realism of the description, 
omitting no detail necessary to the truthful portrayal of 
the scene to be presented, reminds us sensibly of Zola. 
But further than this there is no likeness between the two 
writers. The misery Miss Harding asks us to observe is 
as abject, as dreary, as besotted as any Zola ever knew; 
but while the latter drags from the depths and thrusts 
before us types of animalism that make us shudder, the 
other makes us weep in contemplation of existences dully 
conscious of their starving souls.” 

71 


72 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

“Margaret Howth,” also published anonymously, 
appeared in The Atlantic Monthly in 1862 and also pic¬ 
tures the sordid life of the mill workers of Wheeling. 
The heroine is an accountant in a factory. The hero is 
a man who, though of humble origin, has attained a posi¬ 
tion of wealth and influence entirely through his own 
efforts and sacrifices love for ambition. ‘ ‘ David Gaunt, ’ ’ 
a story of the Civil War, was also published in The At¬ 
lantic Monthly and later in book form. Although writ¬ 
ten, as the author says, “from the border of the battle¬ 
field/ 7 in a section in which sentiment over the issues 
of the war was almost equally divided, “David Gaunt” is 
remarkable for its breadth of vision and its freedom from 
the bitterness and prejudice that too often characterized 
the literature of this period. 

Mrs. Davis was the author of a number of other 
books, among which were “Dallas Galbraith,” “Waiting 
for the Verdict,” “A Law Unto Herself,” “Berrytown,” 
“John Andross,” “Silhouettes of American Life,” 
“Dr. Warwick’s Daughters,” and “Frances Waldeux.” 
She was also an editorial writer for The New York Tri¬ 
bune for several years. During her long literary career 
of half a century, she was a popular contributor to the 
leading magazines and her later work showed the same 
originality and charm as her earlier productions. 

Mrs. Davis found her chief pleasure in her home. 
She had a daughter and two sons, Richard Harding and 
Charles Belmont, both of whom inherited the literary 
talent of their distinguished mother and father. Mrs. 
Davis was of a quiet and retiring disposition. She once 
remarked to a friend, ‘ ‘ I never belonged to a club nor to 
any kind of society, never made a speech and never 
wanted to do it.” The death of Mrs. Davis occurred at 
her home in Philadelphia on September 29, 1910. 


73 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 

LIFE IN THE IRON-MILLS 

“Is this the end? 

0 Life, as futile, then, as frail! 

"What hope of answer or redress?’’ 

A cloudy day: do you know what that is in a town 
of iron-works ? The sky sank down before dawn, muddy, 
flat, immovable. The air is thick, clammy with the 
breath of crowded human beings. It stifles me. I open 
the window, and, looking out, can scarcely see through 
the rain the grocer’s shop opposite, where a crowd of 
drunken Irishmen are puffing Lynchburg tobacco in their 
pipes. I can detect the scent through the foul smells 
ranging loose in the air. 

The idiosyncrasy of this town is smoke. It rolls 
sullenly in slow folds from the great chimneys of the 
iron-foundries, and settles down in black, slimy pools 
on the muddy streets. Smoke on the wharves, smoke on 
the dingy boats, on the yellow river,—clinging in a coat¬ 
ing of greasy soot to the house-front, the two faded pop¬ 
lars, the faces of the passers-by. The long train of mules, 
dragging masses of pig-iron through the narrow streets, 
have a foul vapor hanging to their reeking sides. Here, 
inside, is a little broken figure of an angel pointing up¬ 
ward from the mantle-shelf; but even its wings are cov¬ 
ered with smoke, clotted and black. Smoke everywhere! 
A dirty canary chirps desolately in a cage beside me. 
Its dream of green fields and sunshine is a very old 
dream,—almost worn out, I think. 

From the back-window I can see a narrow brick¬ 
yard sloping down to the river-side, strewed with rain- 
butts and tubs. The river, dull and tawnv-colored, (la 
belle riviere!) drags itself sluggishly along, tired of the 
heavy weight of boats and coal-barges. What wonder? 
When I was a child, I used to fancy a look of weary, 
dumb appeal upon the face of the negro-like river slav 
ishly bearing its burden day after day. Something of 
the same idle notion comes to me to-day, when from the 
street-window I look on the slow stream of human life 


74 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


creeping past, night and morning, to the great mills. 
Masses of men, with dull, besotted faces bent to the 
ground, sharpened here and there by pain or cunning; 
skin and muscle and flesh begrimed with smoke and 
ashes; stooping all night over boiling caldrons of metal, 
laired by day in dens of drunkenness and infamy; breath¬ 
ing from infancy to death an air saturated with fog and 
grease and soot, vileness for soul and body. What do 
you make of a case like that, amateur psyschologist ? 
You call it an altogether serious thing to be alive: to 
these men it is a drunken jest, a joke,—horrible to angels 
perhaps, to them common-place enough. My fancy 
about the river was an idle one: it is no type of such a 
life. What if it be stagnant and slimy here ? It knows 
that beyond there waits for it odorous sunlight,—quaint 
old gardens, dusky with soft, green foliage of apple- 
trees, and flushing crimson with roses,—air, and fields, 
and mountains. The future of the Welsh puddler pass¬ 
ing just now is not so pleasant—to be stowed away, after 
his grimy w'ork is done, in a hole in the muddy grave¬ 
yard, and after that ,—not air, nor green fields, nor 
curious roses 

Can you see how foggy the day is? As I stand 
here, idly tapping the window-pane, and looking out 
through the rain at the dirty back-yard and the coal- 
boats below, fragments of an old story float up before 
me,—a story of this old house into which I happened to 
come to-day. You may think it a tiresome story enough, 
as foggy as the day, sharpened by no sudden flashes of 
pain or pleasure.—I know: only the outline of a dull 
life, that long since, with thousands of dull lives like its 
own, was vainly lived and lost: thousands of them,— 
massed, vile, slimy lives, like those of the torpid lizards 
in yonder stagnant water-butt—Lost ? There is a curious 
point for you to settle, my friend, who study psychol¬ 
ogy in a lazy, dilettante way. Stop a moment. I am 
going to be honest. This is what I want you to do. I 
w r ant you to hide your disgust, take no heed to your clean 
clothes, and come right down with me,—here, into the 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


76 


thickest of the fog and mud and foul effluvia. I want 
you to hear this story. There is a secret down here, in 
this nightmare fog, that has lain dumb for centuries: I 
want to make it a real thing to you. You, Egoist, or 
Pantheist, or Arminian, busy in making straight paths 
for your feet on the hills, do not see it clearly,—this 
terrible question which men here have gone mad and died 
trying to answer. I dare not put this secret into words. 
I told you it was dumb. These men, going by with 
drunken faces and brains full of unawakened power, do 
not ask it of Society or of God. Their lives ask it; their 
deaths ask it. There is no reply. I will tell you plainly 
that I have a great hope; and I bring it to you to be 
tested. It is this: that this terrible dumb question is 
its own reply; that it is not the sentence of death we 
think it, but, from the very extremity of its darkness the 
most solemn prophecy which the world has known of 
the Hope to come. I dare make my meaning no clearer, 
but will only tell my story. It will, perhaps, seem to you 
as foul and dark as this thick vapor about us, and as preg¬ 
nant with death; but if your eyes are free as mine are 
to look deeper, no perfume-tinted dawn will be so fair 
with promise of the day that shall surely come. 

My story is very simple,—only what I remember of 
the life of one of these men,—a furnace-tender in one 
of Kirby & John’s rolling-mills,—Hugh Wolfe. You 
know the mills? They took the great order for the 
Lower Virginia railroads there last winter; run usually 
with about a thousand men. I cannot tell why I choose 
the half-forgotten story of this Wolfe more than that of 
myriads of these furnace-hands. Perhaps because there 
is a secret underlying sympathy between that story and 
this day w r ith its impure fog and thwarted sunshine,— 
or perhaps simply for the reason that this house is the 
one where the Wolfes lived. There were the father and 
son,—both hands, as I said, in one of Kirby & John’s 
mills for making railroad-iron,—and Deborah, their cous¬ 
in, a picker in some of the cotton-mills. The house was 
rented then to half a dozen families. The Wolfes had 


76 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

two of the cellar rooms. The old man, like many of the 
puddlers and feeders of the mills, was Welsh,—had spent 
half of his life in the Cornish tin mines. Yon may pick 
the Welsh emigrants, Cornish miners, ont of the throng 
passing the windows, any day. They are a trifle more 
filthy; their muscles are not so brawny; they stoop more. 
When they are drunk, they neither yell, nor shout, nor 
stagger, but skulk along like beaten hounds. A pure 
unmixed blood, I fancy; shows itself in the slight angu¬ 
lar bodies and the sharply-cut facial lines. It is nearly 
thirty years since the Wolfes lived here. Their lives were 
like those of their class: incessant labor, sleeping in the 
kennel-like rooms, eating rank pork and molasses, drink¬ 
ing—God and the distillers only know what; with an 
occasional night in jail, to atone for some drunken ex¬ 
cess. Is that all of their lives?—of the portion given to 
them and these their duplicates swarming the streets 
today?—nothing beneath?—all? So many a political 
reformer will tell you,—and many a private reformer 
too, who has gone among them with a heart tender with 
Christ’s charity, and come out outraged, hardened. 

One rainy night about eleven o’clock, a crowd of 
half-clothed women stopped outside of the cellar-door. 
They were going home from the cotton mill. 

“Good-night, Deb,” said one, a mulatto, steadying 
herself against the gas-post. She needed the post to 
steady her. So did more than one of them. 

“Dah’s a ball to Miss Potts’ to-night. Ye’d best 
come. ’ ’ 

“Inteet, Deb, if hur’ll come, hur’ll hef fun,” said 
a shrill Welsh voice in the crowd. 

Two or three dirty hands were thrust out to catch 
the gown of the woman, who was groping for the latch 
of the door. 

“No.” 

“No? Where’s Kit Small, then?” 

‘ ‘ Begorra! on the spools. Alleys behint, though we 
helped her, we dud. An wid ye! Let Deb alone! It’s 
ondacent frettin’ a quite body alone! Be the powers, 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


77 


an’ we’ll have a night of it! there’ll be lashin’s o’ 
drink,—the Vargent be blessed and praised for it!” 

They went on, the mulatto inclining for a moment 
to show fight, and drag the woman Wolfe off with them; 
but, being pacified, she staggered away. 

Deborah groped her way into the cellar, and after 
considerable stumbling, kindled a match and lighted a 
tallow dip, that sent a yellow glimmer over the room. 
It was low, damp,—the earthen floor covered with a 
green, slimy moss,—a fetid air smothering the breath. 
Old Wolfe lay asleep on a heap of straw, wrapped in a 
torn horse-blanket. He was a pale, meek, little man 
■with a white face and red rabbit-eyes. The woman 
Deborah was like him!; only her face was even more 
ghastly, her lips bluer, her eyes more watery. She wore 
a faded cotton gown and a slouching bonnet. When she 
walked, one could see that she was deformed, almost a 
hunchback. She trod softly, so as not to waken him and 
went through into the room beyond. There she found 
by the half-extinguished fire an iron saucepan filled with 
cold boiled potatoes, which she put upon a broken 
chair with a pint-cup of ale. Placing the old candlestick 
beside this dainty repast, she untied her bonnet, which 
hung limp and wet over her face, and prepared to eat 
her supper. It was the first food that had touched her 
lips since morning. There was enough of it, however: 
there is not always. She was hungry,—one could see 
that easily enough,—and not drunk, as most of her com¬ 
panions would have been found at this hour. She did 
not drink, this woman,—her face told that, too,—nothing 
stronger than ale. Perhaps the weak, flaccid wretch 
had some stimulant in her pale life to keep her up,— 
some love or hope it might be, or urgent need. When 
that stimulant was gone, she would take to whiskey. 
Man cannot live by work alone. While she was skinning 
the potatoes and munching them, a noise behind her 
made her stop. 

“Janey!” she called, lifting the candle and peering 
into the darkness. “Janey, are you there?” 


78 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

A heap of ragged coats was heaved up, and the face 
of a young girl emerged, staring sleepily at the woman. 

‘‘Deborah,’’ she said at last, “I’m here the night.’ 1 

“Yes, child. Hur’s welcome,” she said, quietly eat¬ 
ing on. 

The girl’s face was haggard and sickly; her eyes 
were heavy with sleep and hunger: real Milesian eyes 
they were, dark, delicate blue, glooming out from the 
black shadows with a pitiful fright. 

“I was alone,” she said timidly. 

“Where’s the father?” asked Deborah, holding out 
a potato, which the girl greedily seized. 

“He’s beyant,—wid Haley,—in the stone house.” 
(Did you ever hear the word jail from an Irish mouth?) 
“I came here. Hugh told me never to stay me-lone.” 

“Hugh?” 

“Yes.” 

A vexed frown crossed her face. The girl saw it, 
and added quickly,— 

‘ ‘ I have not seen Hugh the day, Deb. The old man 
says his wateh lasts till the mornm’.” 

The woman sprang up, and hastily began to arrange 
some bread and flitch in a tin pail, and to pour her own 
measure of ale into a bottle. Tying on her bonnet, she 
blew out the candle. 

“Lay ye down Janey, dear,” she said, gently, cov¬ 
ering her with the old rags. 

“Hur can eat the potatoes, if hur’s hungry.” 

“Where are ye goin’, Deb? The rain’s sharp.” 

“To the mill with Hugh’s supper.” 

“Let him bide till the morn. Sit ye down.” 

“No, no,”—sharply pushing her off. “The boy’ll 
starve. ’ ’ 

She hurried from the cellar, while the child wearily 
coiled herself up for sleep. The rain was falling heav¬ 
ily as the woman, pail in hand, emerged from the mouth 
of the alley, and turned down the narrow street, that 
stretched out, long and black, miles before her. Here 
and there a flicker of gas lighted an uncertain space of 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


79 


muddy footwalk and gutter; the long rows of houses, 
except an occasional lager-beer shop, were closed; now 
and then she met a band of mill hands skulking to or 
from their work. 

Not many even of the inhabitants of a manufactur¬ 
ing town know the vast machinery of system by which 
the bodies of workmen are governed, that goes on un¬ 
ceasingly from year to year. The hands of each mill 
are divided into watches that relieve each other as regu¬ 
larly as the sentinels of an army. By night and day the 
work goes on, the unsleeping engines groan and shriek, 
the fiery pools of metal boil and surge. Only for a day 
in the week, in half-courtesy to public censure, the fires 
are partially veiled; but as soon as the clock strikes mid¬ 
night, the great furnaces break forth with renewed fury, 
the clamor begins with fresh, breathless vigor, the en¬ 
gines sob and shriek like ‘‘gods in pain .” 

As Deborah hurried down through the heavy rain, 
the noise of these thousand engines sounded through the 
sleep and shadow of the city like far-off thunder. The 
mill to which she was going lay on the river, a mile 
below the city limits. It was far, and she was weak, 
aching from standing twelve hours at the spools. Yet 
it was her almost nightly walk to take this man his 
supper, though at every square she sat down to rest, and 
she knew she should receive small word of thanks. 

Perhaps, if she had possessed an artist’s eye, the 
picturesque oddity of the scene might have made her 
step stagger less, and the path seem shorter; but to her 
the mills were only, ‘ ‘ summat deilish to look at by night.* ’ 

The road leading to the mills had been quarried 
from the solid rock, which rose abrupt and bare on one 
side of the cinder-covered road, while the river, sluggish 
and black, crept past on the other. The mills for rolling 
iron are simply immense tent-like roofs, covering acres of 
ground, open on every side. Beneath these roofs Deborah 
looked in on a city of fires, that burned hot and fiercely 
in the night. Fire in every horrible form: pits of flame 
waving in the wind; liquid metal-flames writhing in tor- 


80 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

tuous streams through the sand; wide caldrons filled with 
boiling fire, over which bent ghastly wretches stirring 
the strange brewing; and through all, crowds of half- 
clad men, looking like revengeful ghosts in the red light, 
hurried, throwing masses of glittering fire. It was like 
a street in Hell. Even Deborah muttered, as she crept 
through, “ ‘T looks like t ’ Devil’s place!” It did,—in 
more ways than one. 

She found the man she was looking for, at last, 
heaping coal on a furnace. He had not time to eat his 
supper; so she went behind the furnace, and waited. 
Only a few men were with him, and they noticed her 
only by a “Hyur comes t’ hunchback, Wolfe.” 

Deborah was stupid with sleep; her back pained her 
sharply; and her teeth chattered with cold, with the 
rain that soaked her clothes and) dripped from her at 
every step. She stood, however, patiently holding the 
pail, and waiting. 

1 ‘ Hout, woman! ye look like a drowned cat. Come 
near to the fire,”—said one of the men, approaching to 
scrape away the ashes. 

She shook her head. Wolfe had forgotten her. He 
turned, hearing the man, and came closer. 

“I did no’ think; gi’ me my supper, woman.” 

She watched him eat with a painful eagerness. 
With a woman’s quick instinct, she saw that he was not 
hungry,—was eating to please her. Her pale, watery 
eyes began to gather a strange light. 

“Is’t good, Hugh? T’ ale was a bit sour, I feared.” 

“No, good enough. ’ ’ He hesitated a moment. ‘ ‘ Ye ’re 
tired, poor lass! Bide here till I go. Lay down 
there on that heap of ash, and go to sleep.” 

He threw her an old coat for a pillow, and turned to 
his work. The heap was the refuse of the burnt iron, 
and was not a hard bed; the half-smothered warmth, 
too, penetrated her limbs, dulling their pain and cold 
shiver. 

Miserable enough she looked, lying there on the ashes 
like a limp, dirty rag,—yet not an unfitting figure to 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


81 


crown the scene of hopeless discomfort and veiled crime: 
more fitting, if one looked deeper into the heart of 
things,—at her thwarted woman's form, her colorless life, 
her waking stupor that smothered pain and hunger,— 
even more fit to be a type of her class. Deeper yet if 
one could look, w r as there nothing worth reading in this 
wet, faded thing, half-covered with ashes? no story of 
a soul filled with groping passionate love, heroic unsel¬ 
fishness, fierce jealousy? of years of weary trying to 
please the one human being whom she loved, to gain one 
look of real heart-kindness from him? If anything like 
this were hidden beneath the pale, bleared eyes, and dull, 
washed-out-looking face, no one had ever taken the trou¬ 
ble to read its faint signs: not the half-clothed furnace- 
tender, Wolfe, certainly. Yet he was kind to her: it 
was his nature to be kind, even to the very rats that 
swarmed in the cellar; kind to her in just the same way. 
She knew that. And it might be that very knowledge 
had given to her face its apathy and vacancy more than 
her low, torpid life. One sees that dead, vacant look 
steal sometimes over the rarest, finest of women's faces,— 
in the very midst, it may be, of their warmest summer's 
day; and then one can guess at the secret of intolerable 
solitude that lies hid beneath the delicate laces and bril¬ 
liant smile. There was no warmth, no brilliancy, no 
summer for this woman; so the stupor and vacancy had 
time to gnaw into her face perpetually. She was young, 
too, though no one guessed it; so the gnawing was the 
fiercer. 

She lay quiet in the dark corner, listening, through 
the monotonous din and uncertain glare of the works, 
to the dull plash of the rain in the far distance,—shrink¬ 
ing back whenever the man Wolfe happened to look to¬ 
wards her. She knew, in spite of all his kindness, that 
there was that in her face and form which made him 
loathe the sight of her. She felt by instinct, although 
she could not comprehend it, the finer nature of the man. 
which made him among his fellow-workmen something 
unique, set apart. She knew, that, down under all the 


82 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


vileness and coarseness of his life, there was a groping 
passion for whatever was beautiful and pure,—that his 
soul sickened with disgust at her deformity, even when 
his words were kindest. Through this dull conscious¬ 
ness, which never left her, came like a sting, the recol¬ 
lection of the dark blue eyes and lithe figure of the little 
Irish girl she had left in the cellar. The recollection 
struck through even her stupid intellect with a vivid 
glow of beauty and of grace. Little Janey, timid, help¬ 
less, clinging to Hugh as her only friend: that was the 
sharp thought, the bitter thought, that drove into the 
glazed eyes a fierce light of pain. You laugh at it? 
Are pain and jealousy less savage realities down here in 
this place I am taking you to than in your own house or 
your own heart,—your heart, which they clutch at some¬ 
times. The note is the same, I fancy, be the octave high 
or low. 

If you could go into this mill where Deborah lay, 
and drag out from the hearts of these men the terrible 
tragedy of their lives, taking it as a symptom of the 
disease of their class, no ghost Horror would terrify you 
more. A reality of soul-starvation, of living death, that 
meets you every day under the besotted faces on the 
street,—I can paint nothing of this, only give you the 
outside outlines of a night, a crisis in the life of one man: 
whatever muddy depth of soul-history lies beneath you 
can read according to the eyes God has given you. 

Wolfe, while Deborah watched him as a spaniel its 
master, bent over the furnace with his iron pole, uncon¬ 
scious of her scrutiny, only stopping to receive orders. 
Physically, Nature had promised the man but little. He 
had already lost the strength and instinct vigor of a 
man, his muscles were thin, his nerves weak, his face 
(a meek, woman’s face) haggard, yellow with consump¬ 
tion. In the mill he was known as one of the girl-men, 
“Molly Wolfe” was his sobriquet . He was never seen 
in the cockpit, did not own a terrier, drank but seldom; 
when he did, desperately. He fought sometimes, but 
was always thrashed, pommelled to a jelly. The man 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


83 


was game enough, when his blood was up; but he was no 
favorite in the mill; he had the taint of school-learning 
on him,—not to a dangerous extent, only a quarter or 
so in the free-school in fact, but enough to ruin him as 
a good hand in a fight. 

For other reasons, too, he was not popular. Not 
one of themselves, they felt that, though outwardly as 
filthy and ash-covered; silent, with foreign thoughts and 
longings breaking out through his quietness in innumer¬ 
able curious ways: this one, for instance. In the neigh¬ 
boring furnace-buildings lay great heaps of the refuse 
from the ore after the pig-metal is run. Korl we call it 
here: a light, porous substance, of a dielicate, waxen, 
flesh-colored tinge. Out of the blocks of this korl, Wolfe, 
in his off-hours from the furnace, had a habit of chipping 
and moulding figures,—hideous, fantastic enough, but 
sometimes strangely beautiful: even the mill-men saw 
that, while they jeered at him. It was a curious fancy 
in the man, almost a passion. The few hours for rest 
he spent hewing and hacking with his blunt knife, never 
speaking, until his watch came again,—working at one 
figure for months, and, when it was finished, breaking 
it to pieces perhaps, in a fit of disappointment. A 
morbid; gloomy man, untaught, unled, left to feed his 
soul in grossness and crime, and hard, grinding labor. 

I want you to come down and look at this Wolfe, 
standing there among the lowest of his kind, and see him 
just as he is, that you may judge him justly when you 
hear the story of this night. I want you to look back, 
as he does every day, at his birth in vice, his starved in¬ 
fancy; to remember the heavy years he has groped 
through as boy and man,—the slow, heavy years of con¬ 
stant, hot work. So long ago he began, that he thinks 
sometimes he has worked there for ages. There is no 
hope that it will ever end. Think that God put into 
this man’s soul a fierce thirst for beauty,—to know it, 
to create it; to be —something, he knows not what,—other 
than he is. There are moments when a passing cloud, 

the sun glittering on the purple thistles, a kindlv smile, 
4 


84 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


a child’s face, will rouse him to a passion of pain,—when 
his nature starts up with a mad cry of rage against God, 
man, whoever it is that has forced this vile, slimy life 
upon him. With all this groping, this mad desire, a great 
blind intellect stumbling through wrong, a loving poet’s 
heart, the man was by habit only a coarse, vulgar laborer, 
familiar with sights and words you would blush to name. 
Be just; when I tell you about this night, see him as he 
is. Be just,—not like man’s law, which seizes on one 
isolated fact, but like God’s judging angel, whose clear, 
sad eye saw all the countless cankering days of this man’s 
life, all the countless nights, When, sick with starving, 
his soul fainted in him, before it judged him for this 
night, the saddest of all. 

I called this night the crisis of his life. If it was, 
it stole on him unawares. These great turning-days of 
life cast no shadow before, slip by unconsciously. Only 
a trifle, a little turn of the rudder, and the ship goes to 
heaven or hell. 

Wolfe, while Deborah watched him, dug into the 
furnace of melting iron with his pole, dully thinking 
only how many rails the lump would yield. It was 
late,—nearly Sunday morning; another hour, and the 
heavy" work would be done,—only the furnaces to replen¬ 
ish and cover for the next day. The workmen were grow¬ 
ing more noisy, shouting, as they had to do, to be heard 
over the deep clamor of the mills. Suddenly they grew 
less boisterous,—at the far end, entirely silent. Some¬ 
thing unusual had happened. After a moment, the silence 
came nearer; the men stopped their jeers and drunken 
choruses. Deborah, stupidly lifting up her head, saw 
the cause of the quiet. A group of five or six men were 
slowly approaching, stopping to examine each furnace as 
they came. Visitors often came to see the mills after 
night: except by growing less noisy, the men took no 
notice of them. The furnace where Wolfe worked was 
near the bounds of the works; they halted there hot 
and tired: a walk over one of these great foundries is 
no trifling task. The woman, drawing out of sight, turn- 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


85 


ed over to sleep. Wolfe, seeing them stop, suddenly 
roused from his indifferent stuper, and watched them 
keenly. He knew some of them: the overseer, Clark,— 
a son of Kirby, one of the mill owners,—and a Doctor 
May, one of the town-physicians. The other two were 
strangers. Wolfe came closer. He seized eagerly every 
chance that brought him into contact with this myster¬ 
ious class that shone down on him perpetually with the 
glamour of another order of being. What made the dif¬ 
ference between them ? That was the mystery of his life. 
He had a vague notion that perhaps to-night he could 
find it out. One of the strangers sat down on a pile of 
bricks, and beckoned young Kirby to his side. 

‘ ‘ This is hot, with a vengeance. A match, please ? ’ ’ 
—lighting his cigar. * * But the walk is worth the trouble. 
If it were not that you must have heard it so often, 
Kirby, I would tell you that your works look like Dante’s 
Inferno .” 

Kirby laughed. 

“Yes. Yonder is Farinata himself in the burning 
tomb. ’ ’—pointing to some figure in the shimmering 
shadows. 

“Judging from some of the faces of your men,” 
said the other, ‘ ‘ they bid fair to try the reality of Dante’s 
vision, some day.” 

Young Kirby looked curiously around, as if seeing 
the faces of his hands for the first time. 

“They Ye bad enough, that’s true. A desperate set, 
I fancy. Eh, Clarke?” 

The overseer did not hear him. He was talking of 
net profits just then,—giving, in fact, a schedule of the 
annual business of the firm to a sharp, peering little 
Yankee, who jotted down notes on a paper laid on the 
crown of his hat: a reporter for one of the city-papers, 
getting up a series of reviews of the leading manufactor¬ 
ies. (The other gentlemen had accompanied them merely 
for amusement.) They were silent until the notes were 
finished, drying their feet at the furnaces, and shelter¬ 
ing their faces from the intolerable heat. At last the 


80 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


overseer concluded with— 

“I believe that is a pretty fair estimate, Captain . 77 

“Here, some of you men!” said Kirby, “bring up 
those boards. We may as well sit down, gentlemen, until 
the rain is over. It cannot last much longer at this 
rate . 7 7 

“Pig-metal,” mumbled the reporter,—“um!—coal 
facilities,—um!—hands employed, twelve hundred,— 
bitumen,—um !—all right, I believe, Mr. Clarke;—sink¬ 
ing-fund,—what did you say was your sinking-fund ? 77 

“Twelve hundred hands?” said the stranger, the 
young man who had first spoken. “Do you control their 
votes, Kirby?” 

“Control? No.” The young man smiled compla¬ 
cently. “But my father brought seven hundred votes 
to the polls for his candidate last November. No force- 
work you understand,—only a speech or two, a hint to 
form themselves into a society, and a bit of red and blue 
bunting to make them a flag. The Invincible Roughs,— 
I believe that is their name. I forget the motto: ‘ Our 

country’s hope , 7 I think.” 

There was a laugh. The young man talking to Kirby 
sat with an amused light in his cool gray eye, surveying 
critically the half-clothed figures of the puddlers, and 
the slow swing of their brawny muscles. He was a 
stranger in the city,—spending a couple of months in the 
borders of a Slave State, to study the institutions of the 
South,—a brother-in-law of Kirby’s,—Mitchell. He was 
an amateur gymnast,—hence his anatomical eye; a pa¬ 
tron, in a blase way, of the prize-ring; a man who sucked 
the essence out of a science or philosophy in an indiffer¬ 
ent, gentlemanly way; who took Kant, Novalis, Hum¬ 
boldt, for what they were worth in his own scales; ac¬ 
cepting all, despising nothing, in heaven, earth, or hell, 
but one-idead men; with a temper yielding and brilliant 
as summer water, until his Self was touched, when it was 
ice, though brilliant still. Such men are not rare in 
the States. 

As he knocked the ashes from his cigar, Wolfe 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


87 


caught with a quick pleasure the contour of the white 
hand, the blood-glow of the red ring he wore. His voice, 
too, and that of Kirby’s, touched him like music,—low, 
even, with chording cadences. About this man Mitchell 
hung the impalpable atmosphere belonging to the 
thorough-bred gentleman. Wolfe, scraping away the 
ashes beside him, was conscious of it, did obeisance to it 
with his artist sense, unconscious that he did so. 

The rain did not cease. Clarke and the reporter left 
the mills; the others, comfortably seated near the fur¬ 
nace, lingered, smoking and talking in a desultory way. 
Greek would not have been more unintelligible to the 
furnace-tenders, whose presence they soon forgot entirely. 
Kirby drew out a newspaper from his pocket and read 
aloud some article, which they discussed eagerly. At 
every sentence, Wolfe listened and more like a dumb, 
hopeless animal, with a duller, more stolid look creeping 
over his face, glancing now and then at Mitchell, mark¬ 
ing acutely every smallest sign of refinement, then back 
to himself, seeing as in a mirror his filthy body, his more 
stained soul. 

Never! He had no words for such a thought, but 
he knew now, in all the sharpness of the bitter certainty, 
that between them there was a great gulf never to be 
passed. Never! 

The bell of the mills rang for midnight. Sunday 
morning had dawned. Whatever hidden message lay in 
the tolling bells floated past these men unknown. Yet 
it was there. Veiled in the solemn music ushering the 
risen Savior was a key-note to solve the darkest secrets 
of a world gone wrong,—even this social riddle which 
the brain of the grimy puddler grappled with madly 
to-night. 

The men began to withdraw the metal from the cal¬ 
drons. The mills were deserted on Sundays, except by 
the hands who fed the fires, and those who had no lodg¬ 
ings and slept usually on the ash-heaps. The three 



88 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


strangers sat still during the next hour, watching the 
men cover the furnaces, laughing now and then at some 
jest of Kirby’s. 

“Do you know,” said Mitchell, “I like this view of 
the works better than when the glare was fiercest ? These 
heavy shadows and the amphitheatre of smothered fires 
are ghostly, unreal. One could fancy these red smoul¬ 
dering lights to be the half-shut eyes of wild beasts, and 
the spectral figures their victims in the den.” 

Kirby laughed. “You are fanciful. Come, let us 
get out of the den The spectral figures, as you call them, 
are a little too real for me to fancy a close proximity in 
the darkness,—unarmed, too.” 

The others rose, buttoning their overcoats, and light¬ 
ing cigars. 

“Raining, still,” said Doctor May, “and hard. 
Where did we leave the coach, Mitchell?” 

“At the other side of the works,—Kirby, what’s 
that ? ’ 1 

Mitchell started back, half-frightened, as, suddenly 
turning a corner, the white figure of a woman faced him 
in the darkness,—a woman, white, of giant proportions, 
crouching on the ground, her arms flung out in some 
wild gesture of warning. 

“Stop! Make that fire burn there.” cried Kirby, 
stopping short. 

The flame burst out, flashing the gaunt figure into 
bold relief. Mitchell drew a long breath. 

‘ ‘ I thought it was alive, he said, going up curiously. 

The others followed. 

“Not marble, eh?” asked Kirby, touching it. 

One of the lower overseers stopped. 

“Korl, Sir.” 

“Who did it?” 

“Can’t say. Some of the hands; chipped it out in 
off-hours. ’ ’ 

“Chipped to some purpose, I should say. What a 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


89 


flesh-tint the stuff has! Do you see, Mitchell?” 

“I see.” 

He had stepped asfde where the light fell boldest 
on the figure, looking at it in silence. There was not 
one line of beauty or grace in it: a nude woman’s form, 
muscular, grown coarse with labor, the powerful limbs 
instinct with some one poignant longing. One idea: 
there it was in the tense, rigid muscles, the clutching 
hands, the wild, eager face, like that of a starving wolf’s. 
Kirby and Doctor May walked around it, critical, curious. 
Mitchell stood aloof, silent. The figure touched him 
strangely. 

“Not badly done,” said Doctor May. “Where did 
the fellow learn that sweep of the muscles in the arm 
and hand? Look at them! they are groping,—do you 
see?—clutching: the peculiar action of a man dying 
of thirst.” 

“They have ample facilities for studying anatomy,” 
sneered Kirby, glancing at the half-naked figures. 

“Look,” continued the Doctor, “at this bony wrist, 
and the strained sinews of the instep! A working- 
woman,—the very type of her class.” 

‘ ‘ God forbid! ’ ’ muttered Mitchell. 

“Why?” demanded May. “What does the fellow 
intend by the figure? I cannot catch the meaning.” 

“Ask him,” said the other, dryly. “There he 
stands,”—pointing to Wolfe, who stood with a group of 
men, leaning on his ash-rake. 

The Doctor beckoned him with the affable smile 
which kind-hearted men put on, when talking to these 
people. 

“Mr. Mitchell has picked you out as the man who 
did this,—I’m sure I don’t know why. But what did 
you mean by it?” 

“She be hungry.” 

Wolfe’s eyes answered Mitchell, not the doctor. 

“Oh-h! But what a mistake you have made, my 
fine fellow! You have given no sign of starvation to 
the body. It is strong, terribly strong. It has the mad, 


90 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

half-despairing gesture of the drowning / 1 

Wolfe, stammered, glanced appealingly at Mitchell, 
who saw the soul of the thing, he knew. But the cool, 
probing eyes were turned on himself now,—mocking, 
cruel, relentless. 

“Not hungry for meat,” the furnace-tender said 
at last. 

“What then? Whiskey?’’ jeered Kirby, with a 
coarse laugh. 

Wolfe was silent a moment, thinking. 

“I dunno,” he said, w T ith a bewildered look. “It 
mebbe. Surnmat to make her live, I think,—like you. 
Whiskey ull do it, in a way.” 

The young man laughed again. Mitchell flashed a 
look of disgust somewhere,—not at Wolfe. 

“May,” he broke out impatiently, “are you blind? 
Look at that woman’s face! It asks questions of God, and 
says, ‘I have a right to know.’ Good God, how hungry 
it is!” 

They looked a moment, then May turned to the mill- 
owner :— 

“Have you many such hands as this? What are 
you going to do with them? Keep them at puddling 
iron? 

Kirby shrugged his shoulders. Mitchell’s look had 
irritated him. 

“Ce n’est pas mon affaire. I have no fancy for 
nursing infant geniuses. I suppose there are some stray 
gleams of mind and soul among these wretches. The 
Lord will take care of his own; or else they can work 
out their own salvation. I have heard you call our 
American system a ladder which any man can scale. 
Do you doubt it? Or perhaps you want to banish all 
social ladders, and put us all on a flat table-land,—eh 
May ? ’ ’ 

The doctor looked vexed, puzzled. Some terrible 
problem lay hid in this woman’s face, and troubled these 
men. Kirby waited for an answer, and, receiving none, 
went on, warming with his subject. 



REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


91 


‘ ‘ I tell you there’s something wrong that no talk of 
‘Liberte’ or ‘Egalite’ will do away. If I had the making 
of men, these men who do the lowest part of the world’s 
work should be machines,—nothing more,—hands. It 
would be kindness. God help them! What are taste, rea¬ 
son, to creatures who must live such lives as that ? ’ ’ He 
pointed to Deborah, sleeping on the ash-heap. “So 
many nerves to sting them to pain. What if God had 
put your brain, with all its agony of touch, into your 
fingers, and bid you work and strike with that?” 

“You think you could govern the world better?” 
laughed the Doctor. 

“I do not think at all.” 

“That is true philosophy. Drift with the stream, 
because you cannot dive deep enough to find bottom, 
eh?” 

“Exactly,” rejoined Kirby. “I do not think.* I 
wash my hands of all social problems,—slavery, caste, 
white or black. My duty to my operatives has a nar¬ 
row limit,—the pay-hour on Saturday night. Outside 
of that, if they cut korl, or cut each other’s throats, 
(the more popular amusement of the two,) I am not 
responsible. ’ ’ 

The Doctor sighed,—a good honest sigh, from the 
depths of his stomach. 

“God help us! WTio is responsible?” 

“Not I, I tell you,” said Kirby, testily. “What has 
the man who pays them money to do with their soul’s 
concerns, more than the grocer or butcher who takes it ? ” 

“And yet,” said Mitchell’s cynical voice, “look at 
her! How hungry she is ” 

Kirby tapped his boot with his cane. No one spoke. 
Only the dumb face of the rough image looking into their 
faces with the awful question, “What shall we do to be 
saved?” Only Wolfe’s face, with its heavy weight of 
brain, its weak, uncertain mouth, its desperate eyes, out 
of which looked the soul of his class,—only Wolfe’s face 
turned toward Kirby’s. Mitchell laughed,—a cool, musi¬ 
cal laugh. 


92 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


‘ ‘ Money has spoken! ’ ’ he said, seating himself light¬ 
ly on a stone with the air of an amused spectator at a 
play. “Are you answered?”—turning to Wolfe, his 
clear, magnetic face. 

Bright and deep and cold as Arctic air, the soul of 
the man lay tranquil beneath. He looked at the furnace- 
tender as he had looked at a rare mosaic in the morning; 
only the man was the more amusing study of the two. 

“Are you answered? Why, May, look at him! ‘De 
profundis clamavi Or to quote in English, ‘Hungry 
and thirsty, his soul faints in him.’ And so Money 
sendis back its answer into the depths through you, 
Kirby! Very clear the answer, too!—I think I remem¬ 
ber reading the same words somewhere:—washing your 
hands in Eau de Cologne, and saying, ‘I am innocent of 
the blood of this man. See ye to it!” 

• Kirby flushed angrily. 

“You quote scripture freely.” 

“Do I not quote correctly? I think I remember 
another line, which may amend my meaning: ‘ Inasmuch 

as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto 
me.’ Deist? Bless you, man, I was raised on the milk 
of the Word.” 

“Now, Doctor, the pocket of the world having ut¬ 
tered its voice, what has the heart to say? You are a 
philanthropist, in a small way,— n’est ce pas ? Here, 
boy, this gentleman can show you how to cut korl bet¬ 
ter,—or your destiny. Go on, May ! 9 9 

“I think a mocking devil possesses you tonight,” 
rejoined the Doctor, seriously. 

He went to Wolfe and put his hand kindly on his 
arm. Something of a vague idea possessed the Doctor’s 
brain that much good was to be done here by a friendly 
word or two: a latent genius to be warmed into life by 
a waited-for sunbeam. Here it was; he had brought it. 
So he went on so complacently:— 

‘ ‘ Do you know boy, you have it in you to be a great 
sculptor, a great man?—do you understand?” (talking 
down to a capacity of his hearer: it is a way people have 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


93 


with children, and men like Wolfe,)—“to live a better, 
stronger life than I, or Mr. Kirby here? A man may 
make himself anything he chooses. God has given you 
stronger powers than many men,—me for instance.” 

May stopped, heated, glowing with his own mag¬ 
nanimity. And it was magnanimous. The puddler had 
drunk in every word, looking through the Doctor’s flurry, 
and generous heat, and self-approval, into his will, with 
those slow, absorbing eyes of his. 

“Make yourself what you will. It is your right.” 

“I know,” quietly. “Will you help me?” 

Mitchell laughed again. The Doctor turned now, 
in a passion,— 

“You know Mitchell, I have not the means. You 
know, if I had, it is in my heart to take this boy and 
educate him for—” 

“The glory of God, and the glory of John May.” 4 

May did not speak for a moment; then, controlled, 
he said,— 

“Why should one be raised when myriads are left?— 
I have not the money, boy,” to Wolfe, shortly. 

“Money?” He said it over slowly, as one repeats the 
guessed answer to a riddle, doubtfully. “That is it? 
Money ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, money,—that is it,” said Mitchell, rising, and 
drawing his furred coat about him. “You’ve found the 
cure for all the world’s diseases,—Come May, find your 
good-humor and come home. This damp wind chills my 
very bones. Come and preach your Saint-Simonian doc¬ 
trines to-morrow to Kirby’s hands. Let them have a 
clear idea of the rights of the soul, and I ’ll venture next 
week they’ll strike for higher wages. That will be the 
end of it.” 

“Will you send the coach driver to this side of the 
mills?” asked Kirby, turning to Wolfe. 

He spoke kindly; it was his habit to do so. Deborah, 
seeing the puddler go, crept after him. The three men 
waited outside. Doctor May walked up and down, 
chafed. Suddenly he stopped. 


94 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


“Go back Mitchell! You say the pocket and the 
heart of the world speak without meaning to these peo¬ 
ple. What has its head to say? Taste, culture, refine¬ 
ment ? Go ! 9 ’ 

Mitchell was leaning against a brick wall. He turn¬ 
ed his head indolently, and looked into the mills. There 
hung about the place a thick, unclean odor. The slight¬ 
est motion of his hand marked that he perceived it, and 
his insufferable disgust. That was all. May said noth¬ 
ing, only quickened his angry tramp. 

‘ ‘ Besides, ’ ’ added Mitchell, giving a corollary to his 
answer, ‘ ‘ it would be of no use. I am not one of them. ’ ’ 

“You do not mean”—said May, facing him. 

“Yes, I mean just that. Reform is born of need, 
not pity. No vital movement of the people’s has worked 
down, for good or evil; fermented, instead, carried up the 
heaving, cloggy mass. Think back through history, and 
you will know it. What will this lowest deep—thieves, 
Magdalens, negroes—do with the light filtered through 
ponderous Church creeds, Baconian theories, Goethe 
schemes? Some day, out of their bitter need will be 
thrown up their own light-bringer,—their Jean Paul, 
their Cromwell, their Messiah.” 

“Bah!” was the Doctor’s inward criticism. How¬ 
ever, in practice, he adopted the theory; for, when, night 
and morning, afterwards, he prayed that power might 
be given these degraded souls to rise, he glowed at heart, 
recognizing an accomplished duty. 

Wolfe and the woman had stood in the shadow 
of the works as the coach drove off. The doctor had 
held out his hand in a frank, generous way, telling him 
to take care of himself, and to remember it was his right 
to rise. Mitchell had simply touched his hat, as to an 
equal, with a quie\ look of thorough recognition. Kirby 
had thrown Deborah some money, which she found, and 
clutched eagerly enough. They were gone now, all of 
them. The man sat down on the cinder road, looking 
up into the murky sky. * 

“ ’T be late, Hugh. Wunnot hur come?” 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


95 


He shook his head doggedly, and the woman crouch¬ 
ed out of his sight against the wall. Do you remember 
rare moments when a suden light flashed over yourself, 
your world, God? when you stood on a mountain-peak, 
seeing your life as it might have been, as it is ? one quick 
instant, when custom lost its force and every-day usage ? 
when your friend, wife, brother, stood in a new light? 
your soul was bared, and the grave,—a foretaste of the 
nakedness of the Judgment-Day? * So it came before 
him, his life, that night. The slow tides of pain he had 
borne gathered themselves up and surged against his 
soul. His squalid daily life, the brutal coarseness eating 
into his brain, as the ashes into his skin: before, these 
things had been a dull aching into his consciousness; 
to-night, they were reality. He gripped the filthy red 
shirt that clung, stiff with soot, about him, and tore it 
savagely from his arm. The flesh beneath was muddy 
with grease and ashes,—and the heart beneath that! 
And the soul? God knows. 

Then flashed before his vivid poetic sense the man 
who had left him,—the pure face, the delicate, sinewy 
limbs, in harmony with all he knew of beauty or truth. 
In his cloudy fancy he had pictured a Something like 
this. He had found it in this Mitchell, even when he 
idly scoffed at his pain: a Man all-knowing, all-seeing, 
crowned by Nature, reigning,—the keen glance of his 
eye falling like a sceptre on other men. And yet his 
instinct taught him that he too— He! He looked at him 
self with suden loathing, sick, wrung his hands with a cry, 
and then was silent. With all the phantoms of his heated 
ignorant fancy, Wolfe had not been vague in his ambi¬ 
tions. They were practical, slowly built up before him 
out of his knowledge of what he could do. Through years 
he had day by day made this hope a real thing to him¬ 
self,—a clear, projected figure of himself, as he might 
become. 

Able to speak, to know what was best, to raise these 
men and women working at his side up with him: some¬ 
times he forgot this defined hope in the frantic anguish 


9G 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


to escape,—only to escape,—out of the wet, the pain, 
the ashes, somewhere, anywhere,—only for one moment 
of free air on a hillside, to lie down and let his sick soul 
throb itself out in the sunshine. But to-night he panted 
for life. The savage strength of his nature was roused; 
his cry was fierce to God for justice. 

“Look at me!” he said to Deborah, with a low, 
bitter laugh, striking his puny chest savagely. “What 
am I worth, Deb? Is it my fault that I am no better? 
My fault? My fault? 

He stopped, stung with a sudden remnrse, seeing her 
hunchback shape withering with sobs. For Deborah was 
crying thankless tears, according to the fashion of women. 

“God gorgi’ me, woman! things go harder wi’ you 
nor me. It’s a worse share.” 

He got up and helped her to rise; and they went 
doggedly down the muddy street, side by side. 

“It’s all wrong,” he muttered, slowly,—“all wrong! 
I dunnot understand. But it’ll end some day.” 

“Gome home, Hugh!” she said, coaxingly; for he 
had stopped, looking around bewildered. 

‘ ‘ Home,—and back to the mill! ’ ’ He went on say¬ 
ing this over to himself, as if he would mutter down 
every pain in this dull despair. 

She followed him through the fog, her blue lips chat- 
ering with cold. They reached the cellar at last. Old 
Wolfe had been drinking since she went out, and had 
crept nearer the door. The girl Janey slept heavily in 
the corner. He went up to her, touching softly the worn 
white arm with his fingers. Some bitterer thought stung 
him, as he stood there. He wiped the drops from his fore¬ 
head, and went into the room beyond, livid, tremb- 
A hope, trifling, perhaps, but very dear, had died just 
then out of the poor puddler’s life, as he looked at the 
sleeping, innocent girl,—some plan for the future, in 
which she had borne a part. He gave it up that moment, 
then and forever. Only a trifle, perhaps, to us: his face 
grew a shade paler,—that was all. But, somehow, the 
man’s soul, as God and the angels looked down on it, 


f 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


97 


never was the same afterwards. 

Deborah followed him into the inner room. She car¬ 
ried a candle, which she placed on the floor, closing the 
door after her. She had seen the look on his face, as he 
turned away: her own grew deadly. Yet, as she came up 
to him, her eyes glowed. He was seated on an old chest, 
quiet, holding his face in his hands. 

“Hugh!” she said, softly. 

He did not speak. 

‘ ‘ Hugh, did hur hear what the man said,—him with 
the clear voice? Did hur hear? Money, moi^ey,—that 
it wud do all?” 

He pushed her away,—gently, but he was worn out; 
her rasping tone fretted him. 

“Hugh!” 

The candle flared a pale yellow light over the cob- 
webbed brick walls, and the woman standing there. He ' 
looked at her. She was young, in deadly earnest; her 
faded eyes, and wet, ragged figure caught from their 
frantic eagerness a power akin to beauty. 

“Hugh, it is true! Money ull do it! Oh, Hugh, 
boy, listen till me! He said it true! It is money!” 

‘ ‘ I know. Go back! I do not want you here. ’ ’ 

“Hugh, it is t’ last time. I’ll never worrit hur 
again. ’ ’ 

There were tears in her voice now, but she choked 
them back. 

“Hear till me only to-night! If one of t’ witch 
people void come, then we heard of t’ home, and gif hur 
all hur wants, what then? Say, Hugh!” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean money.” 

Her whisper shrilled through his brain. 

“If one of t’ witch dwarfs wud come from t’ land- 
moors to-night, and gif hur money, to go out,— out, I say, 
—out, lad, where t’ sun shines, and t* heath grows, and t’ 
ladies walk in silken gownds, and God stays all t’ time, 
—where t’ man lives that talked to us to-night,—Hugh 
knows,—Hugh could walk there like a king! ’ ’ 


98 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

He thought the woman mad, tried to check her, but 
she went on, fierce in her eager haste. 

“If 7 were t’ witch dwmrf, if I had t’ money, wud 
hur thank me? Wud hur take me out o’ this place wid 
hur and Janey? I wud not come into the gran’ house 
hur wud build, to vex hur wid t’ hunch,—only at night, 
when t ’ shadows were dark, stand far off to see hur. 

Mad? Yes! Are many of us mad in this way? • 

“Poor Deb! poor Deb!” he said, soothingly. 

“It is here,” she said, suddenly jerking into his 
hand a small roll. ‘ ‘ I took it! I did it! Me, me!—not 
hur! I shall be hanged, I shall be burnt in hell, if any¬ 
body knows I took it! Out of his pocket, as he leaned 
against t’ bricks. Hur knows?” 

She thrust it into his hand, and then, her errand 
done, began to gather chips together to make a fire, chok¬ 
ing down hysteric sobs. 

“Has it come to this?” 

That was all he said. The Welsh Wolfe blood was 
honest. The roll was a small green pocket-book contain¬ 
ing one or two gold pieces, and a check for an incredible 
amount, as it seemed to the poor puddler. He laid it 
down, hiding his face again in his hands. 

“Hugh, don’t be angry wud me! It’s only poor 
Deb,—hur knows?” 

He took the long skinny fingers kindly in his. 

“Angry? God help me, no! Let me sleep. I am 
tired.” 

He threw himself heavily down on the wooden bench, 
stunned with pain and weariness. She brought some old 
rags to cover him. 

It W’as late on Sunday evening before he awoke. I 
tell God’s truth, when I say he had then no thought of 
keeping this money. Deborah had hid it in his pocket. 
He found it there. She watched him eagerly, as he took 
it out. 

“I must gif it to him,” he said, reading her face. 

“Hur knows,” she said with a bitter sigh of disap¬ 
pointment. “But it is hur right to keep it.” 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


99 


His right! The word struck him. Doctor May had 
used the same. He washed himself, and went out to find 
this man Mitchell. His right! Why did this chance 
word cling to him so obstinately? Do you hear the fierce 
devils whisper in his ear, as he went slowly down the 
darkening street ? 

The evening came on, slow and calm. He seated 
himself at the end of an alley leading into one of the 
larger streets. His brain was clear to-night, keen, intent, 
mastering. It would not start back, cowardly, from any 
hellish temptation , but meet it face to face. Therefore 
the great temptation of his life came to him veiled by no 
sophistry, but bold, defiant, owning its own vile name, 
trusting to one bold blow for victory. 

He did not deceive himself. Theft! That was it. 
At first the word sickened him; then he grappled with it. 
Sitting there on a broken cart wheel, the fading day, the 
noisy groups, the church-bells’ tolling passed before him 
like a panorama, while the sharp struggle went on within. 
This money! He took it out, and looked at it. If he 
gave it back, what then? He was going to be cool 
about it. 

People going to church saw only a sickly mill-boy 
watching them quietly at the alley’s mouth. They did 
not know that he was mad, or they would not have gone 
by so quietly: mad wfith hunger; stretching out his hands 
to the world, that had given so much to them, for leave 
to live the life God meant him to live. His soul within 
him was smothering to death; he wanted so much, 
thought so much, and knew' —nothing. There was noth¬ 
ing of which he was certain, except the mill and things 
there. Of God and heaven he had heard so little, that 
they were to him what fairy-land is to a child: some¬ 
thing real, but not here; very far off. His brain, greedy, 
dwarfed, full of thwarted energy and unusual powers, 
questioned these men and women going by, coldly, bit¬ 
terly, that night. Was it not his right to live as they,— 
a pure life, a good, true-hearted life, full of beauty and 
kind words? He only wanted to know how to use the 


100 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

strength within him. His heart warmed, as he thought 
of it. He suffered himself to think of it longer. If he 
took the money ? 

Then he saw himself as he might be, strong, helpful, 
kindly. The night crept on, as this one image slowly 
evolved itself from the crowd of other thoughts and stood 
triumphant. He looked at it. As he might be! What 
wonder, if it blinded him to delirium,—the madness that 
underlies all revolutions, all progress, and all fall? 

You laugh at the shallow temptation? You see the 
error underlying its argument so clearly,—that to him 
a true life was one of full development rather than self- 
restraint ? that he was deaf to the higher tone in a cry of 
voluntary suffering for truth’s sake than in the fullest 
flow of spontaneous harmony ? I do not plead his cause. 
I only want to show you the mbte in my brother’s eye: 
then you can see clearly to take it out. 

The money,—there it lay on his knee, a little blotted 
slip of paper, nothing in itself; used to raise him out of 
the pit; something straight from God’s hand. A thief! 
Well, wthat was it to be a thief? He met the question at 
last, face to face, wiping the clammy drops of sweat from 
his forehead. God made this money—the fresh air, too 
—for his children’s use. He never made the difference 
between the poor and rich. The Something wdio looked 
down on him that moment through the cool gray sky had 
a kindly face, he knew,—loved his children alike. Oh, 
he knew that! 

There were times when the soft floods of color in the 
crimson and purple flames, or the clear depth of amber 
in the water below the bridge, had somehow given him a 
glimpse of another world than this,—of an infinite depth 
of beauty and of quiet somewhere,—somewhere,—a depth 
of quiet and rest and love. Looking up now, it became 
strangely reaL The sun had sunk quite below the hills, 
but his last pays struck upward, touching the zenith. 
The fog had risen, and the town and river were steeped 
in its thick, gray damp; but overhead, the sun-touched 
smoke-clouds opened like a cleft ocean,—shifting, rolling 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


101 


seas of crimson mist, waves of billowy silver veined with 
blood-scarlet, inner depths unfathomable of glancing 
light. Wolfe’s artist-eye grew drunk with color. The 
gates of that other world! Fading, flashing before him 
now! What, in that world of Beauty, Content, and 
Right, were the petty laws, the mine and thine, of mill- 
owners and mill-hands? 

A consciousness of power stirred within him. He 
stood up. A man,—he thought, stretching out his hands, 
—free to work, to live, to love ! Free! His right! He fold¬ 
ed the scrap of paper in his hand. As his nervous fingers 
took it up, limp and blotted, so his soul took in the mean 
temptation, lapped it in fancied rights, in dreams of im¬ 
proved existences, drifting and endless as the cloud-seas 
of color. Clutching it, as if the tightness of his hold 
would strengthen his sense of possession, he went aim¬ 
lessly down the street. It was his watch at the mill. He 
need not go, need never go again, thank God!—shaking 
off the thought with unspeakable loathing. 

Shall I go over the history of the hours of that 
night ? how the man wandered from one to another of his 
old haunts, with a half-consciousness of bidding them 
farewell,—lanes and alleys and back-yards where ehe 
mill-hands lodged,—noting, with a new eagerness, the 
filth and drunkenness, the pig-pens, the ash-heaps cov¬ 
ered with potato-skins, the bloated, pimpled women at 
the doors,—with a new disgust, a new sense of sudden 
triumph, and, under all, a new, vague dread, unknown 
before, smothered down, kept under, but still there? It 
left him but once during the night, when, for the second 
time in his life, he entered a church. It was a sombre 
Gothic pile, where the stained light lost itself in far- 
retreating arches; built to meet the requirements and 
sympathies of a far other class than Wolfe’s. Yet it 
touched, moved him uncontrollably. The distances, the 
shadows, the still, marble figures, the mass of silent kneel¬ 
ing worshippers, the mysterious music, thrilled, lifted his 
soul with a wonderful pain. Wolfe forgot himself, for¬ 
got the new life he was going to live, the mean terror 


102 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

gnawing underneath. The voice of the speaker strength¬ 
ened the charm; it was clear, feeling, full, strong. An 
old man, who had lived much, suffered much; whose 
brain was keenly alive, dominant; whose heart was sum¬ 
mer-warm with charity. He taught it to-night. He 
held up Humanity in its grand total; showed the great 
world cancer to his people. Who could show it better? 
He was a Christian reformer; he had studied the age 
thoroughly; his outlook at man had been free, world-wide, 
over all time. His faith stood sublime upon the Rock of 
Ages; his fiery zeal guided vast schemes by which the 
gospel was to be preached to all nations. How did he 
preach it to-night? In burning, light-laden words, he 
painted the incarnate Life, Love, the universal Man: 
words that became reality in the lives of these people,— 
that lived again in beautiful words and actions, trifling, 
but heroic. Sin, as he defined it, was a real foe to them; 
their trials, temptations, were his. His words passed 
far over the furnace-tender’s grasp, toned to suit another 
class of culture; they sounded in his ears a very pleasant 
song.in an unknown tongue. He meant to cure this 
world-cancer with a steady eye that had never glared 
with hunger, and a hand that neither poverty nor strych¬ 
nine-whiskey had taught to shake. In this morbid, dis¬ 
torted heart of the Welsh puddler he had failed. 

Wolfe rose at last, and turned from the church down 
the street. He looked up; the night had come on foggy, 
damp; the golden mists had vanished, and the sky lay 
dull and ash-colored. He wandered again aimlessly down 
the street, idly wondering what had become of the cloud- 
sea of crimson and scarlet. The trial-day of this man’s 
life was over, and he had lost the victory. What fol¬ 
lowed was mere drifting circumstance,—a quicker walk¬ 
ing over the path,—that was all. Do you want to hear the 
end of it? You Wish me to make a tragic story out of it? 
Why, in the police-reports of the morning paper you can 
find a dozen such tragedies: hints of ship-wrecks unlike 
any that ever befell on the high seas; hints that here a 
power was lost to heaven,—that there a soul went down 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


103 


where no tide can ebb or flow. Commonplace enough 
the hints are,—jocose sometimes, done up in rhyme. 

Doctor May, a month after the night I have told you 
of, was reading to his wife at breakfast from this fourth 
column of the morning-paper: an unusual thing,—these 
police-reports not being, in general, choice reading for 
ladies; but it was only one item he read. 

“Oh, my dear! You remember that man I told you 
of, that we saw at Kirby’s mill?—that was arrested for 
robbing Mitchell? Here he is; just listen:—‘Circuit 
Court. Judge Day. Hugh Wolfe, operative in Kirby 
& John’s Loudon Mills. Charge, grand larceny. Sen¬ 
tence, nineteen years hard labor in penitentiary.’— 
Scoundrel! Serves him right! After all our kindness 
that night! Picking Mitchell’s pocket at the very time! ’ ’ 

His wife said something about the ingratitude of 
that kind of people, and then they began to talk of some¬ 
thing else. 

Nineteen years! How easy that was to read! What 
a simple word for Judge Day to utter. Nineteen years! 
Half a lifetime! 

Hugh Wolfe sat on the window-ledge of his cell, look¬ 
ing out. His ankles were ironed. Not usual in such 
cases; but he had made two desperate efforts to escape, 
“Well,” as Haley, the jailer, said, “small blame to him! 
Nineteen years’ imprisonment was not a pleasant thing 
to look forward to. ” Haley was very good-natured about 
it, though Wolfe had fought him savagely. 

“When he was first caught,” the jailer said after¬ 
wards, in telling the story, “before the trial, the fellow 
was cut down at once,—laid there on that pallet like a 
dead man, with his hands over his eyes. Never saw a 
man so cut down in my life. Time of the trial, too, came 
the queerest dodge of any customer I ever had. Would 
choose no lawyer. Judge gave him one, of course. Gib¬ 
son it was. He tried to prove the fellow crazy; but it 
wouldn’t go. Thing was plain as daylight: money found 
on him. ’T was a hard sentence,—all the law allows; but 
it was for ’sample’s sake. These mill-hands are gettin’ 


104 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

onbearable. When the sentence was read , he just looked 
up, and said the money was his by rights, and that all the 
world had gone wrong. That night, after the trial, a 
gentleman came to see him here, name of Mitchell,—him 
as he stole from. Talked to him for an hour. Thought 
he came for curiosity, like. After he had gone, thought 
Wolfe was remarkable quiet, and went into his cell. 
Found him very low; bed all bloody. Doctor said he had 
been bleeding at the lungs. He was weak as a cat; yet; 
if ye’ll b’lieve me, he tried to get a-past me and get out. 
I just carried him like a baby, and threw him on the pal¬ 
let. Three days after, he tried it again: that time reach¬ 
ed the wall. Lord help you! he fought like a tiger,—giv’ 
some terrible blows. Fightin’ for life, you see; for he 
can’t live long, shut up in the stone crib down yonder. 
Got a death-cough now. ’T took two of us to bring him 
down that day; so I just put the irons on his feet. There 
he sits, in there. Goin ’ to-morrow, with a batch more of 
’em. That woman, hunchback, tried with him,—you re¬ 
member?—she’s only got three years. ’Complice. But 
she’s a woman, you know. He’s been quiet ever since I 
put on irons: giv’ up, I suppose. Looks white, sick- 
lookin’. It acts different on ’em, bein’ sentenced. Most 
of ’em gets reckless, devilish-like. Some prays awful, 
and sings them vile songs of the mills, all in a breath. 
That woman, now, she’s desper’t’. Been beggin’ to see 
Hugh, as she calls him, for three days. I’m a-goin’ to 
let her in. She don’t go with him. Here she is in this 
next cell. I’m a-goin’ now to let her in.” 

He let her in. Wolfe did not see her. She crept 
into a corner of the cell, and stood watching him. He 
was scratching the iron bars of the window with a piece 
of tin which he had picked up, with an idle, uncertain 
vacant stare, just as a child or idiot would do. 

“Tryin’ to get out, old boy?” laughed Haley. 

1 ‘ Them irons will need a crowbar beside your tin, before 
you can open ’em.” 

Wolfe laughed, too, in a senseless way. 

“I think I’ll get out,” he said. 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


105 


“I believe bis brain’s touched,” said Haley, when 
he came out. 

The puddler scraped away with the tin for half an 
hour. Still Deborah did not speak. At last she ventured 
nearer, and touched his arm. 

“Blood?” she said, looking at some spots on his 
coat with a shudder. 

He looked up at her. “Why, Deb!” he said, smil¬ 
ing,—such a bright, boyish smile, that it went to poor 
Deborah’s heart directly, and she sobbed and cried out 
loud. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Hugh, lad! Hugh! dunnot look at me, when 
it wur my fault! To think I brought hur to it! And I 
loved hur so ! Oh, lad,I dud!” 

The confession, even in this wretch, came with the 
woman’s blush through the sharp cry. 

He did not seem to hear her,—scraping away dili¬ 
gently at the bars with the bit of tin. 

Was he going mad? She peered closely into his 
face. Something she saw there made her draw suddenly 
back,—something which Haley had not seen, that lay 
beneath the pinched, vacant look it had caught since the 
trial, or the curious gray shadow that rested on it. That 
gray shadow,—yes, she knew what that meant. She had 
often seen it creeping over women’s faces for months, 
who died at last of slow hunger or consumption. That 
meant death, distant, lingering: but this — Whatever it 
was the woman saw, or thought she saw, used as she was 
to crime and misery, seemed to make her sick with a new 
horror. Forgetting her fear of him, she caught his 
shoulders, and looked keenly, steadily, into his eyes. 

“Hugh!” she cried, in a desperate whisper,—“oh, 
boy, not that! for God’s sake, not that /” 

The vacant laugh went off his face, and he answered 
her in a muttered word or two that drove her away. Yet 
the words were kindly enough. Sitting there on his pal¬ 
let, she cried silently a hopeless sort of tears, but did not 
speak again. The man looked up furtively at her now 
and then. Whatever his own trouble was, her distress 


106 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


vexed him with a momentary sting. 

It was market-day. The narrow window of the jail 
looked down directly on the carts and wagons drawn up 
in a long line, wdiere they had unloaded. He could see, 
too, and hear distinctly the clink of money as it changed 
hands, the busy crowd of whites and blacks shoving, 
pushing one another, and the chaffering and swearing at 
the stalls. Somehow, the sound, more than anything else 
had done, wakened him up,—made the whole real to 
him. He was done with the world and the business of it. 
He let the tin fall, and looked out, pressing his face close 
to the rusty bars. How they crowded and pushed! And 
he,—he should never walk that pavement again ! There 
came Neff Sanders, one of the feeders at the mill, with a 
basket on his arm. Sure enough, Neff was married the 
other week. He whistled, hoping he Would look up; but 
he did not. He wondered if Neff remembered he was 
there,—if any of the boys thought of him up there, and 
thought that he never was to go down that old cinder- 
road again. Never again! He had not quite understood 
it before; but now he did. Not for days or years, but 
never!—that was it. 

How clear the light fell on that stall in front of the 
market! and how like a picture it Was, the dark-green 
heaps of corn, and the crimson beets, and golden melons! 
There was another with game: how the light dickered 
on that pheasant’s breast, with the purplish blood drip¬ 
ping over the brown feathers! He could see the red 
shining of the drops, it was so near. In one minute he 
could be down there. It was just a step. So easy, as it 
seemed, so natural to go! Yet it could never be—not in 
all the thousands of years to come—that he should put 
his foot on that street again! He thought of himself 
with a sorrowful pity, as of somJe one else. There was a 
dog down in the market, walking after his master with 
such a stately, grave look!—only a dog, yet he could go 
backwards and forwards just as he pleased: he had good 
luck! Why, the very vilest cur, yelping there in the 
gutter, had not lived his life, had been free to act out 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


107 


whatever thought God had put into his brain; while he— 
No, he would not think of that! He tried to put the 
thought away, and to listen to a dispute between a coun- 
' tryman and a woman about some meat; but it would 
come back. He, what had he done to bear this? 

Then came the sudden picture of what might have 
been, and now. He knew what it was to be in the peni¬ 
tentiary,—how it went with men there. He knew how 
in these long years he should slowly die, t»ut not until 
soul and body had become corrupt and rotten,—how, 
when he came out, if he lived to come, even the lowest of 
the mill-hands would jeer him,—how his hands would be 
weak, and his brain senseless and stupid. He believed 
he was almost that now. He put his hand to his head, 
with a puzzled, weary look. It ached, his head, with 
thinking. He tried to quiet himself. It was only right, 
perhaps; he had done wrong. But was there right or 
wrong for such as he ? What was right ? And w’ho had 
ever taught him? He thrust the whole matter away. 
A dark, cold quiet crept through his brain. It was all 
wrong; but let it be! It was nothing to him more than 
the others. Let it be! 

The door grated, as Haley opened it. 

1 ‘ Come, my woman! Must lock up for t ’ night. 
Come, stir yerself!” 

She went up and took Hugh’s hand. 

“Good-night, Deb,” he said, carelessly. 

She had not hoped he would say more; but the tired 
pain on her mouth just then was bitterer than death. She 
took his passive hand and kissed it. 

“Hur’ll never see Deb again!” she ventured, her 
lips growing colder and more bloodless. 

What did she say that for? Did he not know it? 
Yet he would not be impatient with poor old Deb. She 
had trouble of her own, as well as he. 

“No, never again,” he said, trying to be cheerful. 

She stood just a moment, looking at him. Do you 
laugh at her, standing there, with her hunchback, her 
rags, her bleared, withered face, and the great despised 


108 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

love tugging at her heart? 

“Come, you!” called Haley, impatiently. 

She did not move. 

“Hugh!” she whispered. 

It was to be her last word. What was it? 

“Hugh, boy, not THAT!” 

He did not answer. She wrung her hands, trying 
to be silent, looking in his face in an agony of entreaty. 
He smiled again, kindly. 

“It is best, Deb. I cannot bear to be hurted any 
more. ’ ’ 

“Hur knows,” she said, humbly. 

“Tell my father good-bye; and—and kiss little 
J aney. * ’ 

She nodded, saying nothing, looked in his face again, 
and went out of the door. As she went, she staggered. 

“DrinkhT to-day?” broke out Haley, pushing her 
before him. “Where the Devil did you get it? Here, 
in with ye! ” and he shoved her into her cell, next to 
Wolfe’s, and shut the door. 

Along the wall of her cell there was a crack low 
down by the floor, through which she could see the light 
from Wolfe’s. She had discovered it days before. She 
hurried in now, and, kneeling down by it, listened, hop¬ 
ing to hear some sound. Nothing but the rasping of the 
tin on the bars. He was at his old amlisement again. 
Something in the noise jarred on her ear, for she shivered 
as she heard it. Hugh rasped away at the bars. A dull 
old bit of tin, not fit to cut korl with. 

He looked out of the window again. People were 
leaving the market now. A tall mulatto girl, following 
her mistress, her basket on her head, crossed the street 
just below, and looked up. She was laughing; but, when 
she caught sight of the haggard face peering out through 
the bars, suddenly grew grave, and hurried by. A free, 
firm step, a clear-cut olive face, with a scarlet turban 
tied on one side, dark, shining eyes, and on the head the 
basket poised, filled with fruit and flowers, under which 
the scarlet turban and bright eyes looked out half- 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


109 


shadowed. The picture caught his eye. It was good to 
see a face like that. ITe would try to-morrow, and cut 
one like it. To-morrow! He threw down the tin tremb¬ 
ling, and covered his face with his hands. When he 
looked up again, the daylight was gone. 

Deborah, crouching near by on the other side of the 
wall, heard no noise. He sat on the side of the low 
pallet, thinking. Whatever was the mystery which the 
woman had seen on his face, it came out now slowly, in 
the dark there, and becam!e fixed,—a something never 
seen on his face before. The evening was darkening fast. 
The market had been over for an hour; the rumbling of 
the carts over the pavement grew more infrequent: he 
listened to each, as it passed, because he thought it was to 
be for the last time. For the same reason, it was, I sup¬ 
pose, that he strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of each 
passer-by, wondering who they were, what kind of homes 
they were going to, if they had children,—listening 
eagerly to every chance word in the street, as if—(God 
be merciful to the man! what strange fancy was this ?) 
—as if he never should hear human voices again. 

It was quite dark at last. The street was a lonely 
one. The last passenger, he thought, was gone. No,— 
there was a quick step: Joe Hill, lighting the lamps. 
Joe was a good old chap; never passed a fellow without 
some joke or other. He remembered once seeing the 
place where he lived with his wife. “Granny Hill” the 
boys called her. Bedridden she was; but so kind as Joe 
was to her! kept the room so clean!—and the old woman, 
when he was there, was laughing at “some of t’ lad’s 
foolishness.” The step was far down the street; but he 
could see him place the ladder, run up, and light the gas. 
A longing seized him to be spoken to once more. 

“Joe!” he called, out of the grating. “Good-bye, 
Joe!” 

. The old man stopped a moment, listening uncertainly; 
then hurried on. The prisoner thrust his hand out of 
the window, and called again, louder; but Joe was too far 
down the street. It was a little thing, but it hurt him,— 


110 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 
this disappointment. 

‘ ‘ G-ood-bye, Joe! ’ ’ he called, sorrowfully enough. 

“Be quiet!” said one of the jailers, passing the 
door, striking on it with his club. 

Oh, that was the last, was it? 

There was an inexpressible bitterness on his face, as 
he lay down on the bed, taking the bit of tin, which he 
had rasped to a tolerable degree of sharpness, in his 
hand,—to play with, it may be. He bared his arms, look¬ 
ing intently at their corded veins and sinews. Deborah, 
listening in the next cell, heard a slight clicking sound, 
often repeated. She shut her lips tightly that she might 
not scream; the cold drops of sweat broke over her, in 
her dumb agony. 

“Hur knows best,” she muttered at last, fiercely 
clutching the boards where she lay. 

If she could have seen Wolfe, there was nothing 
about him to frighten her. He lay quite still, his arms 
outstretched, looking at the pearly stream of moonlight 
coming into the window. I think in that one hour that 
came then he lived back over all the years that^had gone 
before. I think that all the low, vile life, all his wrongs, 
all his starved hopes, came then, and stung him with a 
farewell poison that made him sick unto death. He 
made neither moan nor cry, only turned his worn face 
now and then to the pure light, that seemed so far off, 
as one that said, ‘ ‘ How long, 0 Lord ? how long ? ’ ’ 

The hour was over at last. The moon, passing over 
her nightly path, slowly came nearer, and threw her 
light across his bed on his feet. He watched it steadily, 
as it crept up, inch by inch, slowly. It seemed to him 
to carry with it a great silence. He had been so hot and 
tired there always in the mills! The years had been so 
fierce and cruel! There was coming now quiet and cool¬ 
ness and sleep. His tense limbs relaxed and settled in 
a calm lanquor. The blood ran fainter and slow from his 
heart. He did not think now* with a savage anger of 
what might be and was not; he was conscious only ot 
deep stillness creeping over him. At first he saw a sea 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


111 


of faces: the mill-men,—women he had known, drunken 
and bloated,—Janev’s timid and pitiful,—poor old Deb’s: 
then they floated together, like a mist, and faded away, 
leaving only the clear, pearly moonlight. 

Whether, as the pure light crept up the stretched-out 
figure, it brought with it calm and peace, who shall say ? 
His dumb soul was alone with God in judgment. A voice 
may have spoken for it from far-off Calvary, “Father, 
forgive them, for they know not what they do! ” Who 
dare say? Fainter and fainter the heart rose and fell, 
slower and slower the moon floated from behind a cloud, 
until, when at last its full tide of white splendor swept 
over the cell, it seemed to wrap and fold into a deeper 
stillness the dead figure that never should move again. 
Silence deeper than night! Nothing that moved, save 
the black, nauseous stream of blood dripping slowly from 
the pallet to the floor! 

There was outcry and crowd enough in the cell the 
next day. The coroner and his jury, the local editors, 
Kirby himself, and boys with their hands thrust know¬ 
ingly into their pockets and heads on one side, jammed 
into the corners. Coming and going all day. Only one 
woman. She came late and outstayed them all. A 
Quaker, or Friend, as they called themselves. I think 
this woman was known by that name in heaven. A 
homely body, coarsely dressed in gray and white. De¬ 
borah (for Haley had let her in) took notice of her. She 
watched them all—sitting on the end of the pallet, hold¬ 
ing his head in her arms—with the ferocity of a watch¬ 
dog, if any of them touched the body. There was no 
meekness, no sorrow, in her face; the stuff out of which 
murderers are made, instead. All the time Haley and 
the woman were laying straight the limbs and cleaning 
the cell, Deborah sat still, keenly watching the Quaker’s 
face. Of all the crowd there that day, this woman alone 
had not spoken to her,—only once or twice had put some 
cordial to her lips. After they all were gone, this woman, 
in the same still, gentle way, brought a vase of wood- 
leaves and berries, and placed it by the pallet, then open- 


112 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

ed the narrow window. The fresh air blew in, and swept 
the woody fragrance over the dead face. Deborah looked 
np with a quick wonder. 

“Did hur know my boy wud like it? Did hur know 
Hugh ? ’ ’ 

“I know Hugh now.” 

The white fingers passed in a slow, pitiful way over 
the dead, worn face. There was a heavy shadow in the 
quiet ej'es. 

“Did hur know where they 11 bury Hugh?” said 
Deborah in a shrill tone, catching her arm. 

This had been the question hanging on her lips all 

day. 

“In t’ town-yard? Under t’ mud and ash? T’ 
lad’ll smother, woman! He wur born on t’ lane moor, 
where t’ air is frick and strong. Take hur out, for God’s 
sake, take hur out where t’ air blows!” 

The Quaker hesitated, but only for a moment. She 
put her strong arms around Deborah and led her to the 
window. 

“Thee sees the hills, friend, over the river? Thee 
sees how the light lies warm there, and the winds of God 
blow all the day? I live there,—where the blue smoke 
is, by the trees. Look at me.” She turned Deborah’s 
face to her own, clear and earnest. “Thee will believe 
me ? I will take Hugh and bury him there to-morrow. ’ ’ 

Deborah did not doubt her. As the evening wore 
on, she leaned against the iron bars, looking at the hills 
that rose far off, through the thick sodden clouds, like a 
bright, unattainable calm. As she looked, a shadow of 
their solemn repose fell on her face: its fierce discontent 
faded into a pitiful, humble quiet. Slow, -solemn tears 
gathered in her eyes: the poor weak eyes turned so 
hopelessly to the place where Hugh was to rest, the grave 
heights looking higher and brighter and more solemn than 
ever before. The Quaker watched her keenly. She 
came to her at last, and touched her arm. 

“When thee comes back,” she said, in a low, sor¬ 
rowful tone, like one who speaks from a strong heart 


REBECCA HARDING DAVIS 


113 


deeply moved with remorse or pity, “thee shall begin 
thy life again.—there on the hills. I came too late; but 
not for thee,—by God’s help, it may be.” 

Not too late. Three years after, the Quaker began 
her work. I end my story here. At evening-time it was 
light. There is no need to tire you with the long years 
of sunshine, and fresh air, and slow, patient Christ-love, 
needed to make healthy and hopeful this impure body 
and soul. There is a homely pine house, on one of these 
hills, whose windows overlook broad, wooded slopes and 
clover-crimsoned meadows,—niched into the very place 
where the light is warmest, the air free. It is the 
Friends’ meeting-house. Once a week they sit there, in 
their grave, earnest way, waiting for the Spirit of Love 
to speak, opening their simple hearts to receive His words. 
There is a woman, old, deformed, who takes a humble 
place among them: waiting like them: in her gray 
dress, her worn face, pure and meek, turned now and 
then to the sky. A woman much loved by these silent, 
restful people; more silent than they, more humble, more 
loving. Waiting: with her eyes turned to hills higher 
and purer than these on which she lives,—dim and far 
off now, but to be reached some day. There may be in 
her heart some latent hope to meet there the love denied 
her here,—that she shall find him whom she lost, and that 
then she will not be all-unworthy. Who blames her? 
Something is lost in the passage of every soul from one 
eternity to the other,—something pure and beautiful, 
which might have been and was not: a hope, a talent, 
a love, over which the soul mourns, like Esau deprived of 
his birthright. What blame to the meek Quaker, if she 
took her lost hope to make the hills of heaven more fair ? 

Nothing remains to tell that the poor Welsh puddler 
once lived, but this figure of the mill-woman cut in korl. 
I have it here in a corner of my library. I keep it hid 
behind a curtain,—it is such a rough, ungainly thing. 
Yet there are about it touches, grand sweeps of outline, 
that show a master’s hand. Sometimes,—tonight, for 
instance—the curtain is accidentally drawn back, and I 


114 


see a bare arm stretched out imploringly in the darkness, 
and an eager, wolfish face watching mine: a wan, woful 
face, through which the spirit of the dead korl-cutter 
looks out, with its thwarted life, its mighty hunger, its 
unfinished work. Its pale, vague lips seem to tremble 
with a terrible question. ‘ ‘ Is this the end ? ’ ’ they say,— 
“nothing beyond?—no more?” Why, you tell me you 
have seen that look in the eyes of dumb brutes,—horses 
dying under the lash. I know. 

The deep of the night is passing while I write. The 
gas-light wakens from the shadows here and there the 
objects which lie scattered through the room: only 
faintly, though; for they belong to the open sunlight. 
As I glance at them, they each recall some task or pleas¬ 
ure of the coming day. A half-moulded child’s head; 
Aphrodite; a bough of forest-leaves; music; work; homely 
fragments, in which lie the secrets of all eternal truth and 
beauty. Prophetic all! Only this dumb, woful face 
seems to belong to and end with the night. I turn to 
look at it. Has the power of its desperate need com¬ 
manded the darkness aw’ay? While the room is yet 
steeped in heavy shadow, a cool, gray light suddenly 
touches its head like a blessing hand, and its groping 
arm points through the broken cloud to the far East, 
wherein the flickering, nebulous crimson, God has set the 
promise of the Dawn. 

—The Atlantic Monthly, 1861. 


BEUHRING H. JONES 


B euhring H. Jones was born May 12, 1823, at Clifton, 
West Virginia. He was carefully educated, and 
was a teacher, a lawyer, an editor, and a legislator 
of ability. 

At the beginning of the Civil War, he was living in 
Missouri. Though he had opposed secession, when 
President Lincoln issued a proclamation calling for 
seventy-five thousand volunteers for the preservation of 
the Union, he decided to take up the cause of the South. 
Two days after the secession of Virginia, he hastened to 
return to his native State, where he raised a company of 
infantry called the “Dixie Rifles/’ and on June 23, 1861, 
he entered the service of the Confederacy. Colonel Jones 
was actively engaged in the Seven Days’ Battles before 
Richmond, at Mechanicsville, at Cedar Run, and in the 
Kanawha Valley Campaign and won the commendation of 
his superior officers for his bravery. In the battle of New 
Hope, or Piedmont, in which the Confederates were 
routed by superior numbers, Colonel Jones was captured, 
and was sent to Johnson’s Island where he remained a 
prisoner until June 19, 1865, when he was released by 
order of President Johnson. Broken in health and finan¬ 
cially ruined, he went to Lewisburg, where he spent some 
time in compiling a volume of prose and poetry entitled 
“The Sunny Land, or Prison Prose and Poetry,” in 
which he included his own verse, as well as the poems 
and stories of well known Southerners. Colonel Jones 
died on March 18, 1872, while serving as Second Assist¬ 
ant Secretary of the Constitutional Convention which 
assembled in Charleston, January 16, 1872. 


5 


115 


116 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


MY SOUTHERN HOME 


“By the ruins of Babylon , there we sat down; yea, 
we wept when we remembered Zion .”—Psalms cxxxvii. 


If Judean captives sat and wept, by Babel’s river’s sides, 
As memories of Zion far came flowing as the tides; 

If on the willows hung their harps, when asked to wake 
a strain 

Of Zion’s plaintive melody, on Chaldea’s distant plain. 


If they a fearful curse invoked upon each cunning hand, 

Prayed that each traitor-tongue benumbed might para¬ 
lytic stand, 

If they allowed disloyalty old memories to destroy, 

If they held not Jerusalem above their chiefest joy; 

Shall I not weep, Virginia’s hills, her slopes and grassy 
plains, 

Her cities and her villages; her cottages and fanes; 

Her sons so gallant, chivalrous; her bracing mountain air; 

Her daughters pure and beautiful, and true as they 
are fair? 


Shall not my harp remain unstrung, the captive sing 
no more? 

How can I wake the minstrelsy of “Old Virginia’s 
Shore ? ’ ’ 

The Swiss may pine for glaciers wild, The Scot for glen 
and lake, 

The Sciote for his Island home, where maids the vint¬ 
age make: 




BEUHRING H. JONES 


117 


I pine for grand old mountains far, where the free 
eagle’s form 

Floats dimly in the upper sky, fierce monarch of the 
storm; 

The scenes of happy boyhood’s years, of vigorous man¬ 
hood’s prime, 

Of memories that shall e’en survive the with’ring hand 
of Time. 


For there a sainted mother sleeps beneath the grassy sod, 

And there my darling brother’s form, red with his young 
life’s blood, 

And there a fond and gentle wife weeps in her widow¬ 
hood, 

And there a gray-haired father mourns the loved ones 
gone to God. 


A curse, then, on my good right hand, a curse upon my 
tongue, 

If I forget my Southern home—the loins of which I 
sprung; 

There let me go; my heart is there—there may I calmly 
die; 

Virginia’s turf must wrap my clay, her winds my", 
requiem sigh! 

Johnson’s Island, September, 1864. 



VIRGINIA BEDINGER LUCAS 


V irginia Bedinger Lucas, frequently called the Pas¬ 
toral Poet of the Valley, was born at the family 
home, Rion Hall, in Jefferson County, West Vir¬ 
ginia, in 1838. Having lost her mother in infancy, she 
was adopted by a widowed cousin, Mrs. Elizabeth Davis, 
nee Ransom, who later married Mr. Bedinger and moved 
to Kentucky, taking her little adopted daughter with her. 
There Virginia Lucas, surrounded by everything that 
love and tenderness could suggest, spent her girlhood 
days. About 1856, she was sent to Staunton, Virginia, 
to a school for girls. She never went back to her Ken¬ 
tucky home for, at the urgent request of her father, she 
dutifully though reluctantly returned to Rion Hall, where 
she spent the remainder of her brief life. Here amid 
flowers and trees and other beauties of nature, she found 
not only companionship but inspiration for her poems. 
Her life was not without its romance. Her cousin George 
Washington, of Cold Stream, was her suitor, but because 
of their relationship her family opposed a marriage be¬ 
tween the two, and the disappointed lover went to Mis¬ 
souri never to return. 

Virginia Bedinger Lucas was the author of a 
number of poems which she published in Southern 
journals under the pen name, Eglantine. “Disappoint¬ 
ment in love, the death of her brother, William Lucas, 
in the Southland, the desolating years of war, and its 
accompanying loneliness and anxious sorrow may well 
account for the minor strain in her poetry.” 

When in her twenty-seventh year, she passed out of 
life, it was her poet brother, Daniel Bedinger Lucas, who 
felt her death most keenly; for between the two there 
had been a rare and beautiful comradeship such as that 
which blessed the lives of William and Dorothy Words- 

118 


VIRGINIA BEDINGER LUCAS 


119 


worth. Shortly after her death, as a loving memorial to 
her, Daniel Lucas collected her poems and published 
them with some of his own works in a volume entitled 
“The Wreath of Eglantine,’’ in the preface to which he 
says: “It seems to me in comparing the earlier and 
later pieces of Eglantine that she had attained to a know¬ 
ledge of what constitutes Poetry, as distinguished from 
the mere spontaneous and uncultured outflow of poetic 
emotion and that, at her death, she was treading closely 
upon that enchanted domain to breathe whose atmos¬ 
phere is'inspiration indeed.” 


MEETING OF THE SHENANDOAH AND 

POTOMAC AT HARPER’S FERRY 

How brightly glows yon azure summit’s sun-crowned 
crest, 

Serene amid the vapors gathering there! 

Along its misty crags the eagle seeks her nest, 

High soaring through the golden-tinted air; 

While far below forever rolls the restless stream 
Whose origin of old the Indian thought divine, 

And deemed its glancing waters caught their starry gleam 
From those eternal orbs in night’s dark vault that shine. 

Thou beautiful, wild River! thy fountains have their 
source 

’Mong far-off heights; and through Virginia’s fertile 
vale, 

As loth to leave the Blue Ridge side, still winds thy 
course, 

0 ’er swept by many a murmuring mountain-gale: 

The wild deer quits the lonely steep thy wave to drink, 
As twines thy jewel-threaded chain the hills around, 



120 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Blithe chirp the birds among the shrubs that line thy 
brink, 

And sweet is heard the distant sheep-bell’s tinkling 
sound. 


All gently sway the quivering pines that fringe thy flow, 
’Mid blossoms gay, and bees thy waters wend, 

While in the grassy meads beside, the grazing cattle low, 
The rustling corn, and yellow wheat-fields bend: 

Ah! listing to thy dear, familiar sound again, 

Soft as the shade of summer-clouds upon thy shore, 
Borne by the light breeze into the waving grain, 

Come back sweet mem’ries of the days that are no more. 


Losing thyself, at last, beneath the storm-swept height, 
Merged in the deep Potomac evermore, 

The rifted rocks are rent asunder by thy might, 

As loud resounds the tameless torrent’s roar; 

A thousand echoes wake from cliff to cliff beyond, 

A thousand ripples break from rock to rock beneath, 

A thousand breezes bear on high the swelling sound, 

And far the white foam, flashing, flings its crystal wreath. 


Rush on, forever on, ye River, wildly grand! 

Tearing your pathway through the mountain’s heart, 
Whose pinnacles sublime seemed formed by nature’s hand 
To mock the puny works of human art! 

And here will stand these mountains blue from age to 
age— 

The eagle ne’er will lack her rock to build upon; 
Forever roaring here, these stormy tides will rage— 
Forever flow beside the tomb of Washington. 


VIRGINIA BEDINGER LUCAS 


121 


Rear your firm forms, ye Mountain-summits dark with 
shade! 

As calmly o’er your height the sun goes down, 

As when our great immortal dead beneath you strayed— 
The torrent thunders still as fiercely on! 

For here the youthful Washington o’ertrod the shore, 
And Jackson saw yon fringe-tree deck the margin green, 
The Sage of Monticello wandered here of yore, 

And from yon self-poised rock surveyed the glorious 
• scene! 


The Sun, whose golden strands across the ripples gleam, 
Shines on our homes destroyed, our lands laid waste; 
While in our lovely valley ruin reigns supreme— 

A blackening record, ne’er to be effaced! 

But free as are the skies above, these streams below! 
Nor war, nor ruin stays their wildly-rolling wave; 

Their waters ripple on the same, although they flow 
By many a wasted home, and many a hero’s grave. 


So rolled their current when the Indian’s shadow dim 
Fell on their breast two hundred years ago, 

And so will roll, perchance, when his last requiem 
Is chaunted by the vast Pacific’s flow; 

A thousand echoes will from cliff to cliff respond, 

A thousand ripples break from shore to shore beneath, 

A thousand breezes bear on high the rushing sound, 

As far the white foam', flashing, flings its crystal -tfreath! 


122 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


INDIAN SUMMER 

The crimson Sun is slowly sinking in the West; 

The mournful wind is sighing through the vale; 
Soft twilight shadows tremble o ’er the streamlet’s breast, 
And autumn leaves are lifted by the gale. 

Nature smiles in all the wondrous beauty of decay; 

The verdant meads—the woods, with brilliant hue, 
Reflecting the rich glory of the dying day— 

Are painted on a field of boundless blue. 

The green, sparse grain is peering out from its rich mold, 
Not in the dense luxuriance of May, 

Nor waves it in the breeze, with harvest’s gleam of gold, 
But every blade, in velvet-green array, 

Assumes a yellow tinge, as streams of orange light 
Axe pouring gently on the soft, moist clod, 

And teaching that the Sun, who paints in glory bright 
The curtained East, stoops to the humblest sod. 

The far-off mountain-tops, agleam with rosy light, 
While shadows lie between of softest blue, 

Are changing with the day’s departing beams: their 
height 

Now glows in purple splendor; now its hue 
Still takes a deeper dye, as gum with maple blends, 
While poplars intertwine their golden boughs; 

And many a silver-sparkling streamlet softly wends 
His rimpling pathway where the linden grows. 

Beyond the birch, mixed with the oak-leaf’s crimson dye, 
The drooping willow, verdant still, is seen; 

And o’er each rocky cliff that lifts its head on high 
The lordly pine and laurel-leaf are green: 

The barking squirrel stores his hollow tree within 
Shell-barks and dusky walnuts for his hoard, 

And burs ajar, disclosing ripe, brown nuts between, 
With rock-oak acorns, full supplies afford. 


VIRGINIA BEDINGER LUCAS 123 

Round many a rocky brink is hung a scarlet vine, 
Whose tempting clusters dangle in the air. 

Where sassafras and grape-vine lovingly entwine, 

And thorny boughs their purple berries wear • 

The timid rabbit hides him in the stones beneath, 

And slyly nestles in the withered grass, 

Secure, nor hears nor heeds the hound upon the heath, 
Unless my step should scare him as I pass. 

The coral berries of the bitter-sweet are ripe, 

That long ago its light-green leaves has shed; 
Within the forest's depths the fragile Indian pipe 
Lifts up its waxen stalk, and pale, pure head— 
Up-springing in the wildwood s now deserted bowers, 

In pearly clusters from its leafy bed. 

The loveliest and last of all cold autumn's flowers, 

It blooms in lonely beauty round the dead! 

As some fair girl doth tremble at her lover's tone, 

Ash and shumac leaves, of blushing dye, 

Now quiver as the zephyr claims them for his own, 

And to his soft caresses gently sigh:—- 
Oh! wild and melancholy-sweet the wind’s low noise! 

These fading leaves are spirits fleeting by 
Upon the breath of Heaven, and a sweet, sad voice 
Of Nature plains that they should early die! 

For beauty born of swift decay is gleaming there; 

Each shining leaf but brightens as it dies. 

Like the feverish flush Death's human victims wear, 
Too richly bright for these dim earthly skies; 

Alas! ye lovely, soulless things, tis not for you 

My fainting spirit mourns, although ephemeral—- 
Ye are but leaves that spring will soon or late renew— 
To me the West wind breathes a sadder tale! 


DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS 

7 

D aniel Bedinger Lucas, known as the Poet of Shenan¬ 
doah Valley. Avas born in Charles Town, West Vir¬ 
ginia, March 16. 1836. He was the son of William 
Lucas and Virginia Bedinger Lucas, both of whom were 
members of distinguished Virginia families. After at¬ 
tending several private academies, he entered the Uni¬ 
versity of Virginia, from which he was graduated in 1856 

after four years of bril- 
liant achievement as a 
student and as an orator. 
He then entered the well 
known law school of 
Judge John W. Brock- 
enbrough, at Lexington, 
Virginia, and after his 
graduation in 1859, he 
began the practice 
of law in Charles Town. 

At the beginning of 
the Civil War, he 
promptly offered his ser¬ 
vices to the Confederacy, 
and became a member of 
the staff of General 
Henry A. Wise. Short¬ 
ly before the close of the war. came one of the most thrill¬ 
ing as well as one of the most tragic experiences of his 
life, when he, amid great difficulty and danger, ran the 
blockade to New York in a vain effort to save the life 
of his college friend, John Yates Beall, who had been 
captured and tried as a spy, and who was executed on 
Governor’s Island, February 24, 1865. Being unable to 
return to the South. Mr. Lucas went to Canada, where 
lie remained until the close of the war. It was here that 
he wrote and first published his famous poem, “The 

124 






DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS 


125 


Land Where We Were Dreaming” which ranks among 
the greatest war lyrics of the South. 

When Mr. Lucas returned to his home shortly after 
the close of the Civil War, he found himself no longer a 
resident of Virginia, but of West Virginia, and because 
of the requirements of the Test Oath he did not resume 
the practice of law until 1870. 

In 1869-70, he was co-editor with J. Fairfax Mc- 
Laughlen, L L. D., of The Southern Metropolis , a weekly 
published in Baltimore. Alexander H. Stephens said of 
this paper: “I have read The Southern Metropolis 
from the first number, and have often said, and now re¬ 
peat, that it comes nearer filling the place of the London 
Saturday Review than any other paper on the conti¬ 
nent.” 

Judge Lucas attained great distinction in his pro¬ 
fession, because of his wonderful grasp of intricate legal 
questions and his eloquent and convincing oratory. 
Among the honors that came to him were his election to 
the State Legislature, and his appointment as judge of 
the Supreme Court of Appeals of his State, of which he 
was president at the time of his death. On account of 
his extensive law practice, he declined to accept a posi¬ 
tion as professor of law in West Virginia University, 
and also an appointment as circuit judge of his district. 

In spite of his busy life as a lawyer and judge, he 
found time to devote to literary work. Shortly after 
the publication of “The Land Where We Were Dream¬ 
ing,” he published a “Memoir of John Yates Beall.” In 
1869, he published “The Wreath of Eglantine,” which 
contained the poems of his gifted sister, Virginia, and a 
number of his own poems, among which was his long 
poem “St. Agnes of Guienne,” which was favorably re¬ 
ceived throughout the South. In 1869, Mrs. Margaret 
J. Preston writes: “Whether ‘St. Agnes of Guienne’ is 
an old legend, as we suppose, or an invention of the poet, 
its handling is original and striking. The style has a 
well chosen quaintness in fine keeping with the mediaeval 
period in which the story has place. There is sometimes 


126 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

a rich sensuousness of description which suggests Keats’ 

‘Eve of St. Agnes,’. Very delicate, cameo-like 

chiseling, betraying, we think, the mallet hand. 

As critics, we might pour out a vial or two of wrath on 
the head of some of Mr. Lucas’ riotous metaphors, but 
we forbear, mollified and subdued by the abounding 
beauties of the poem.” 

Of this volume, a critic writes in The New Orleans 
Comrrtercial Bulletin, of January 18, 1869: “These 
graceful poems possess so much of real merit and are 
marked by so many evidences of positive poetic beauty, 

that they might be left to introduce themselves. 

Mr. Lucas is not unknown in the periodical literature of 
the day, and there are many, both North and South, who 
will recognize in the pages of this volume old and highly 
prized favorites. Among them will be particu¬ 

larly remembered “The Land Where We Were Dream¬ 
ing” than which, with the exception of several of Father 
Kyan’s lyrics, we recall nothing more exquisite in the 
War poetry of the South. ‘Patriotic and Na¬ 

tional Poems’ repeat the pathos and beauty of the 
above. These are followed by some twenty ‘ Tinto- 
graphic Melodies’ some of which even a stern critic might 
declare to be almost faultless in conception, and melody, 
and rhythm, etc.” 

Among his most charming poems, are a number of 
love lyrics addressed to Miss Lena T. Brooke of Richmond, 
Virginia, who became his wife in 1869. “The Wreath 
of Eglantine” was followed by a war drama, “The Maid 
of Northumberland,” in 1879 and by “Ballads and Mad¬ 
rigals,” in 1884, in which are found a nuniber of occa¬ 
sional poems of merit. He contributed a number of no¬ 
table papers to The Southern Metropolis. Among them 
were his orations on Jackson, John Randolph, Henry 
Clay, and Daniel O’Connell, all of which received high 
commendation. 

Since the death of Judge Lucas, in 1909, a collec¬ 
tion of his poems entitled “The Land Where We Were 
Dreaming” and a volume of his dramatic works includ- 








DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS 


127 


ing “The Maid of Northumberland,’’ “Hildebrand,” 
and “Kate McDonald” have been edited by his daugh¬ 
ter, Virginia, and Professor Charles W. Kent. In the 
introduction to Judge Lucas’s “Dramatic Works,” Doc¬ 
tor Tucker Brooke of Yale University says: “Though 
Judge Lucas’s most permanent contribution as a poet 
will doubtless be found, where he himself would have 
indicated it, in his lyrics of patriotism and sentiment, 
the poetic distinction of his plays is quite indisputable. 
The use of blank verse is never with him, as it has so 
often been with closet dramatists, a mere presumptuous 
affectation or a garish cloak to cover the writer’s inca¬ 
pacity for realistic dialogue.” 


MY HEART IS IN THE MOUNTAINS 

Right nobly flows the River James 
From Richmond to the Sea, 

And many a hollowed mem’ry claims, 

And tribute of love from me; 

But Western Tempe farther on— 

Mother of limestone fountains! 

My heart goes back with the setting sun— 

My heart, my heart is in the Mountains! 

There where the fringe-tree nods his plume, 
Beneath the white pine’s shade— 

There where the laurel drops his bloom 
O’er many a wild cascade— 

There where the eagle seeks his nest— 

Mother of limestone fountains! 

List to an exile’s prayer for rest— 

My heart, my heart is in the Mountains! 



128 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


From the Gap where the Daughter of the Stars 
Down like a maiden coy 
Her dowry to Potomac bears, 

Who leaps to her arms with joy, 

Far back to Hampshire’s cloud-capped hills 
And Page’s limestone fountains, 

There’s not a spot, but my bosom thrills— 

My heart, my heart is in the Mountains! 

The wide expanse of the boundless sea 
Is a sight to stir the soul, 

And there is a breadth of majesty 
In the Western prairie’s roll—■ 

But give me the heights that milk the clouds, 

And gather the dew in fountains! 

Give me the peaks, with their misty shrouds— 
My heart, my heart is in the Mountains! 

There’s something blank in the landscape here 
And tame in the water’s flow— 

I pine for a mountain atmosphere, 

And a crag in the sunset’s glow! 

King of the Hills! Blue Ridge that I love! 

Feed still the Vale with fountains, 

From rock and dale, and mountain-cove— 

My heart, my heart is in the Mountains! 

Down at thy feet from the River’s crest 
I’ve seen the rainbow rise 
And stretch along on thy rockbound breast 
Like a jewel from the skies: 

Symbol of peace! Oh, not in vain 

Come down from the heavenly fountains, 

Let the exile return to his home again 

For my heart, my heart is in the Mountains 


DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS 


129 


THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING 

Fair were our nation’s visions, and as grand 
As ever floated out of fancy-land; 

Children were we in simple faith, 

But god-like children, whom nor death, 

Nor threat of danger drove from honor’s path— 

In the land where we were dreaming! 

f 

Proud were our men as pride of birth could render, 
As violets our women pure and tender; 

And When they spoke, their voices’ thrill 
At evening hushed the whip-poor-will, 

At morn the mocking bird was mute and still, 

In the land where we were dreaming! 


And we had graves that covered more of glory, 
Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story; 
And in our dream we wove the thread 
Of principles for which had bled, 

And suffered long our own immortal dead, 

In the land where we were dreaming! 


Tho’ in our land we had both bond and free, 
Both w^ere content, and so God let them be; 
Till Northern glances, slanting down, 
W.th envy viewed our harvest sun— 

But little recked we, for we still slept on, 

In the land where we were dreaming! 


Our sleep grew troubled, and our dreams grew wild; 
Red meteors flashed across our heaven’s field; 
Crimson the Moon; between the Twins 
Barbed arrows flew in circling lanes 
Of light; red Comets tossed their fiery manes 
O’er the land where we were dreaming! 


130 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Down from her eagle height smiled Liberty, 

And w r aved her hand in sign of victory; 

The world approved, and everywhere, 

Except where growled the Russian bear, 

The brave, the good, the just gave us their prayer, 
For the land where we were dreaming! 


High o’er our heads a starry flag was seen, 

Whose held was blanched, and spotless in its sheen 
Chivalry’s cross its union bears, 

And by his scars each vet’ran swears 
To bear it on in triumph through the w r ars, 

In the land wiiere we were dreaming! 


We fondly thought a Government was ours— 

We challenged place among world’s great powers; 
We talked in sleep of rank, commission, 
Until so life-like grew the vision, 

That he who dared to doubt but met derision, 

In the land where we were dreaming! 


A figure came among us as w r e slept— 

At first he lowly knelt, then rose and wept; 

Then gathering up a thousand spears, 

He swept across the field of Mars, 

Then bowed farewell, and walked behind the stars, 
From the land where were dreaming! 


We looked again, another figure still 
Gave hope, and nerved each individual will; 
Erect he stood, as clothed with power; 
Self-poised, he seemed to rule the hour, 
With firm, majestic sway,—of strength a tower, 
In the land where we were dreaming! 


DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS 


131 


As while great Jove, in bronze, a warder god, 
Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, 
Rome felt herself secure and free, 

So Richmond, we, on guard for thee, 

Beheld a bronzed hero, god-like Lee, 

In the land where we were dreaming! 

As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls,— 
As wakes the mother when her infant falls,— 

As starts the traveler when around 
His sleepy couch the fire-bells sound,— 

So woke our nation with a single bound 
In the land where we were dreaming! 

"Woe! Woe! is us, the startled mothers cried, 
While we have slept, our noble sons have died! 
Woe! woe! is us, how strange and sad, 

That all our glorious visions fled. 

Have left us nothing real but our dead, 

In the land where we were dreaming! 

And are they really dead, our martyred slain? 
No, Dreamers! Morn shall bid them rise again; 
From every plain,—from every height,— 
On which they seemed to die for right, 
Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight, 

In the land where we were dreaming! 


EDWIN GRAY LEE 


E dwin Gray Lee, the second son of Edmund Jennings 
Lee and Henrietta Bedinger Lee, was born at Lee- 
land, Jefferson County, West Virginia, May 25, 
1835. He received his academic training at Hallowell’s 
School at Alexandria, Virginia, and at William and 
Mary College. He studied law under the late Judge 
John Brockenbrough at Lexington. Shortly after he had 
begun the practice of law, the Civil War broke out and 
he entered the service of the Confederacy as a second 
lieutenant in the Second Virginia Infantry. He per¬ 
formed his duties with such fidelity and ability that he 
received one promotion after another. In May, 1861, 
he was appointed first-lieutenant and aide to General 
Thomas J. Jackson. He was then made major of the 
Thirty-third Regiment and later lieutenant-colonel. In 
August, 1862, he was promoted to colonel. Early in 
1863, he was forced by ill health to resign from the army, 
but in the fall he was assigned to active duty, and in May 
1864 served on the staff of General Robert Ransom on 
the south side of the James River. The following June, he 
was sent to Staunton, Virginia, and, when the enemy ad¬ 
vanced, he succeeded in saving all the government prop¬ 
erty and all the prisoners. In October 1864, he was 
appointed a brigadier-general and later was sent to 
Canada on a secret mission for the Confederacy. 

On November 17, 1859, General Lee was married to 
Susan Pendleton, daughter of Rev. William Nelson Pen¬ 
dleton, D.D., and Anzolette Elizabeth Page Pendleton, 
of Lexington, Virginia. 

The close of the Civil War found General Lee broken 
in health and on August 24, 1870, he died at the Yellow 
Sulphur Springs, Montgomery County, Virginia. 

On hearing of his death, his kinsman, General Rob¬ 
ert E. Lee, wrote: “I am truly sorry to hear of Edwin 


132 


EDWIN GRAY LEE 


133 


Lee’s death. He was a true man, and if his health had 
permitted would have been a benefit as well as an orna¬ 
ment to his race. He was certainly a great credit to 
the name.” 

General Lee was the author of a number of poems 
remarkable for their melody and their beauty of diction. 
Much of his verse was published in Southern magazines 
and other periodicals and was thought by critics to possess 
high merit. “To a Mocking Bird,” which is regarded 
as one of his most beautiful poems, was written in 1869, 
while he was in Florida on a vain quest for health. 

THE ROSE OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD 
Beautiful jewels on velvet of green, 

That peer from yon casket so high; 

Beautiful starlets of daintiest sheen, 

That peep from an emerald sky; 

Beautiful golden buds, lulling to sleep 

The sprites that must nestle them there; 
Beautiful gems that the May-Queen will keep 
To twine in her beautiful hair; 

Gems for the Spring-Queen to clasp on her breast; 

Gems that have borrowed their tinge from the west; 
Or lent of their delicate hue to the crest 

Of the cloud that entices the sun to his rest; 
Your rich, bursting petals fresh beauties unfold, 
Beautiful, beautiful Roses of Gold! 

Such odor diffusing above and beneath, 

That tremulous breezes delay, 

Clinging in lassitude soft to each wreath, 

Unwilling to flutter away! 

So subtly distilling the exquisite breath, 

From crucibles hid in your bloom, 

The surfeited zephyrs are sighing for death, 

In an ecstasy—drunk with perfume! 

Palace of beauty, where fairies should throng, 

Throne of the mocking-bird—monarch of song— 
Mate for the jessamine—bower of love— 


134 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Home for the humming-bird, gift from above, 
Concentrate loveliness, sweetness untold, 

Beautiful, Beautiful Roses of Gold! 

Hath each topaz flower, low down in its heart, 

A voice that it cannot control? 

What is it ye tell us, what lesson impart, 

That appeals from the sense to the soul? 

Ye tell of the bountiful love of the hand 

That scattered the wealth of the spring; 

Ye tell of beneficent spirits that stand 

By the throne where THE GIVER is King! 

Ye lift up the heart from the world ye adorn, 

To the world where your heaven-lent beauties were 
born, 

To the world where the incense of love should ascend, 
Its fragrance with songs of the angels to blend! 

Ye tell of the glories that there we’ll behold, 

Beautiful, beautiful Roses of Gold. 

—Home Monthly, June 1868. 

TO A MOCKING BIRD 
Hast ever heard the skylark’s deathless note, 

As, with ambitious wing, 

And more ambitious song, he seemed to float 
Almost where angels sing; 

As tho’ he sought to steal some Heavenly strain 
To swell the measure of his own refrain? 

Hast thou had teaching from the nightingale 
Hymning the list’ning moon? 

Or, slyly covert in some secret vale, 

Conned o’er the thrush’s tune; 

And caught the rich, full-throated gush he flings 
Into the orchestra that April brings? 

To learn the bul-bul’s note, o’er Persia’s sands 
Hast thou unwearied flown? 

Or snatched thee from the fair Australian strands 


EDWIN GRAY LEE 


135 


The bell-bird’s vibrate tone, 

That thou canst blend its lingering, silver thrill 
With parodies of jay and whippoorwill? 

Do orioles from verdant Chesapeake, 

And crested cardinal, 

With linnets from the Severn come to seek, 

Obedient to thy call? 

If they can give thee one new music thought, 

Who ev’ry note from ev’ry land has caught? 

Or hast thou been where music’s fountains start 
’Neath mystic, mythic skies, 

And drunk too deeply, that from out thy heart 
Such glorious melodies 

Leap gushing, gargling, in tumultuous throng 
Until the quivering tree-top drips with song? 

Methinks the rarest choirs of Fairyland 
Attuned each choicest chord; 

Then sent the master songsters from' each band 
And bade them teach thee, bird! 

Who, having taught, bewildered, gathered round 
And marveled where such wondrous song was found! 

God bless thee, Southland bird! God bless thy lay! 

Like music in a dream, 

It floats from old Potomac’s cliffs away 
To Colorado’s stream; 

From where Virginia’s mountain torrents roar, 

To where the warm Gulf laps the Texan shore. 

Where Creole maids their loved and lost ones weep 
Among the cypress glades; 

Or Carolina’s blue-eyed daughters keep 
Beneath magnolia’s shades 
The darling graves where rest their darling dead, 

And lay camelias o’er the sleeper’s head! 


136 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

And everywhere thy joyous medleys ring, 

The weary mourners smile, 

And saddest hearts grow bright to hear thee sing, 
Sweet music—king, the while 
They breathe, “God bless thee,” thou that dost belong 
To us, 0 bird of universal song. 

—The Southern Metropolis , 1869. 


Period of the 


Development of the State 

under the 

Neiv Constitution 

(1872 - 1922 ) 



DANIEL BOARDMAN PURINTON 


D aniel Boardman Purinton, one of West Virginia’s 
most distinguished educators, was born near Rowles- 
burg, Preston County, West Virginia, February 
15, 1850. He is the son of Rev. Jesse M. Purinton and 
Nancy (Alden) Purinton. He comes from a long line 
of ancestors who were distinguished Baptist clergymen. 
His early education was obtained in Georges Creek Acad¬ 
emy at Smithfield, Pennsylvania. He was graduated 
from West Virginia University with an A. B. degree in 
1873 and received an A. M. degree from that institution 
in 1876. In 1889, Denison University conferred upon 
him an LL. D. degree and in 1892 the University of 
Nashville gave him the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. 

Doctor Purinton has spent over forty years in the 
service of his Alma Mater. From 1873 until 1878 he 
taught in the University Preparatory School. He was 
then successively professor of logic, 1878-80; of mathe¬ 
matics, 1880-84; and of metaphysics, 1885-89. In 1881- 
82, he was vice-president and acting president of West 
Virginia University. In 1889, he accepted a position as 
president of Denison University. He resigned in 1901 
to become president of West Virginia University. After 
an efficient and successful administration of twelve years, 
Doctor Purinton resigned in 1912. As president emeri¬ 
tus he retains his deep interest in everything that per¬ 
tains to the welfare of the University, in the service of 
which he has spent the greater part of his life. 

Doctor Purinton is a member of the National Edu¬ 
cation Association, the American Association of State 
University Presidents, the Ohio Educational Association 
and the Southern Association of College Sunday Schools. 
He is one of the most prominent Baptists of the State 
and has for years been a member of the executive com¬ 
mittee of the Northern Baptist Convention. He is also 
a member of the executive committee of the International 
Sunday School Association. 

137 


138 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Doctor Purinton married Florence Alden Lyon who 
is a descendent of John and Priscilla Alden. Doctor 
and Mrs. Purinton have four children: Edward Earl, who 
is internationally recognized as an authority on subjects 
of efficiency; Mary Lyon, now Mrs. Robert R. Green of 
New York City; John Alden, a prominent lawyer of 
Washington, D. C., and Helen Elizabeth, now Mrs. Harry 
Alford Pettigrew of Morgantown. 

Doctor Purinton is the author of “Christian The¬ 
ism.” In 1875, he published “College Songs for West 
Virginia University.” He has written a number of 
songs, the best known of which is “West Virginia Hills.” 
The music and words of this song were written in 1877, 
for his class in nfusic at West Virginia University. 
“West Virginia Hills” is regarded by many persons as 
the most beautiful of our State songs. 

WEST VIRGINIA HILLS 

Oh! the West Virginia hills, the West Virginia hills, 
That ’round my childhood home forever stand; 

How I love the lofty crags, the rocks and gentle rills, 
That tell me of my native land. 

Chorus.— 

Oh! the hills, beautiful hills, 

Oh! the hills, beautiful hills, 

That stand around my childhood home; 
Oh! the West Virginia hills, the West Vir¬ 
ginia hills, 

I love them still where’er I roam. 

Oh! the West Virginia hills, the West Virginia hills, 
With wealth and beauty, truth and grandeur crowned, 
Where the fruit of honest toil, the grateful garner fills, 
And wisdom holds her seat profound. 


Chorus. 


DANIEL BOARDMAN PURINTON 


139 


Oh! the West Virginia hills, the West Virginia hills, 

Tho’ other scenes and other joys may come, 

I can ne’er forget the love that now my bosom thrills, 

Within mv humble mountain home. 

«/ 


Chorus. 


WILLIAM LEIGHTON 


W illiam Leighton was born at Cambridge, Massa¬ 
chusetts, June 22, 1833. His father was of Eng¬ 
lish parentage, and his mother of Puritan ances¬ 
try. When he was about five years of age, his family 
moved to Concord, Massachusetts, where he spent his 
boyhood. 

After his graduation from the scientific department 
of Harvard, he was engaged in the manufacture of glass 

in his native state, and 
later in Wheeling, West 
Virginia, where he own¬ 
ed and managed an ex¬ 
tensive glass factory. 
After having been a resi¬ 
dent of Wheeling for 
about twenty-five years, 
Mr. Leighton retired 
from business, and went 
abroad with his family 
where lie spent the last 
years of his life in travel, 
study, and literary work. 

Mr. Leighton was 
a writer whose charm 
and ability were widely 
recognized. It is a note¬ 
worthy coincidence that 
his “Sons of Godwin," an historical dramatic poem, and 
Tennyson’s “Harold, - ’ both dealing with the same in¬ 
teresting period of history, and with the same historical 
characters, were published, the one in America, the other 
in England, in 1876, practically simultaneously. “The 
Sons of Godwin" attracted a great deal of attention, and 
many critics were of the opinion that it compared very 
favorably with Tennvson s work. A year later, Mr. 



140 







WILLIAM LEIGHTON 


141 


Leighton published “At the Court of King Edwin,” a 
poem of intense historic and dramatic interest. In 1878, 
he published “Change, the Whisper of the Sphinx/’ a 
philosophical poem, upon which he was engaged during a 
large part of his life, and which he was invited to read, 
when it was in its early form, at Ralph Waldo Emerson’s 
home to Mr. Emerson and to a distinguished literary 
circle of Concord, where later the famous Concord School 
of Philosophy was founded. 

Mr. Leighton was a careful student of Shakespeare, 
and wrote several notable works on the great dramatist 
and his writings. Among these are ‘ ‘ A Sketch of Shakes¬ 
peare,” “The Subjection of Hamlet,” and “Shakes¬ 
peare’s Dream.” Two other works of this scholarly 
author are his “Translation of the Merry Tales of Hans 
Sachs” and “The History of Oliver and Arthur,” a 
translation in verse of a quaint mediaeval French ro¬ 
mance. The latter was published in an edition de luxe by 
Houghton, Mifflin and Company. The “Soldiers’ Monu¬ 
ment Poem” or “The Price of the Present Paid by the 
Past ’ ’ which was written for and recited at the dedication 
of the monument erected in Wheeling in memory of the 
soldiers who gave their lives in the defense of the Union, 
shows that the author was without prejudice or bias. 
One of Mr. Leighton’s latest works, “A Scrapbook of 
Pictures and Fancies, ” is a collection of short poems in¬ 
cluding a number of exquisite sonnets, which “sprang 
from hours of thought in several lands.” This book, 
which is dedicated to the author’s wife, daughter, and 
sister, “who” he says, “made for me the poetry of my 
life,” contains poems of such beauty of thought and 
expression that no student of literature can afford to be 
unacquainted with his verse. 

Mr. Leighton greatly enjoyed writing, and wrote 
almost constantly until within three days of his death 
which occurred in Wiesbaden, Germany, in 1911. Two 
months before he passed away he and his wife cele- 


142 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

brated their golden wedding in honor of which he wrote 
two lovely sonnets. His cinerary urn was placed in the 
beautiful and peaceful Sleepy Hollow Cemetery at Con¬ 
cord where his early youth had been spent. 

THE FOUNTAIN 

In mad career 
Are dancing here 
The spirits of the water: 

Quaint shapes appear, to laugh and jeer, 

As down the bright drops patter. 

In hollow way 
Beneath the clay 
Their tinkling feet have run, 

To greet the day with frolic play, 
Upleaping to the sun. 

These elves have fled 
Their native bed, 

And here most cunningly 
They have been led, with fairy tread 
To caper airily. 

Hark, how they cry, 

As forth they fly, 

And shout their glad huzzas: 

“This stairway high, to mount the sky, 

Will toss us to the stars!” 

As pure and white 
The waters bright 
In crystal streams outpour, 

Their sparkles write, in words of light, 

This legend evermore: 

“Who stops to drink 
Upon the brink 
Of our o’erflowing brim 
Need never think his lips should shrink 
From what we pour for him: 

“No poison foul 
Is in our bowl 


WILLIAM LEIGHTON 


143 


To madden heart and brain; 
No wicked bane to give him pain, 

Or noble manhood stain. 

Fly from the charms 
And baleful harms, 

Round madding cups that cling, 
To soothing calms and healing balms 

That our pure waters bring!” 

1878. 


THE PRICE OF THE PRESENT 
PAID BY THE PAST 

Peace and content— 

Far other were those fiercer days 
When all the nation was ablaze, 

And our dear land by inward ravage rent. 

Ah, not yet wholly healed, 

The painful, gaping wounds that then were made 
When brother ’gainst his brother stood arrayed 
On many a bloody field, 

And War unloosed his iron-throated dogs to tear 
With angry strife; 

Nor Pity’s voice could make the cruel cannon spare 
One human life! 

War cried unceasingly, 

Like the fierce Aztec deity, 

“Heap up for me, 

High on my bloody shrine, the promise of the land— 
The bravest and the best the country hath; 
Send forth a chosen band 

Each day to feed my burning wrath!” 

And they went forth— 

Alas, full dearly did we pay 

For the prosperity that smiles to-day!— 

And North and South, 

With the best blood in all the land, made red 
The battle-fields where their brave soldiers bled, 
And heaped the earth with dead. 


144 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Hark to each heavy peal 
As cannon shots resound; 

Even the strong hills reel 

And tremble with the sound!— 

Now through the rifts of smoke-clouds see 
The gleaming lines go by, 

And battle-flags that o’er them fly, 

Torn by sharp rifle-shots and the death-winged artillery. 
Disordered by that dreadful rain 
Are all the glittering lines; 

But o’er them sweeps the smoke again, 

On which the sunlight shines, 

Painting the veil that hides the dead 
With beauty to the eye; 

But, ah! beneath, the earth is red 
With tint of deeper dye. 

Stretched on his hospital cot 
When fever racked each wasted limb,— 

0 hapless lot!— 

Weary were days and nights with him; 

Or, far away 

From his lone bed of woe and pain, 

Remembrance led him home again, 

Guiding the weary soldier’s wandering 
Where memory had a magic charm to bring 
Again the day 

When, from his friends and home departing, 

A mother’s tears fell on his cheek, 

Telling the love she could not speak 
For sobbing; 

Or loving lips were pressed to his 
In tender farewell of a kiss 
That memory 

Had treasured from that hour to this 
How r fondly! 

That home he never more may see, 

Save in hot fever’s phantasy; 


WILLIAM LEIGHTON 


145 


But in his cot of pain alone 
Must yield up life with dying moan; 

No friendly ear to hear the sighs, 

His last of earthly sorrowing, 

Ere, rising on its heavenly wing, 
Homeward at last his spirit flies. 

And shall I tell 

Of all the hardships that befell,— 

The cruel tortures of the heart and brain, 
Famine, and pain,— 

Him whose sad fate 
Bade him a prisoner long remain, 

Sadly to wait 

The turning of his prison key, 

To wait and sigh for liberty! 

So suffered they 

Whose monument we dedicate to-day. 

War’s iron rain, 

Fever, and pain, 

The weary waiting, and the galling chain 
Of dull imprisonment, 

With sundered ties of home, and banishment— 

All these did they endure that we 
More fortunate might be; 

And broad o’er all the land, 

From east to western strand, 

Our country might be blessed with glad prosperity. 

Then let no niggard meed 
Of honor grace each deed 
So bravely done 

On every battle-field whose name, 

Engraven here, records the fame 
Our countrymen have won; 

That patriots yet to be,— 

While still within the land 
Such monuments shall stand,— 


146 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

May bless the memory 
Of those who freely gave 
Their blood and lives to save 
And keep our nation great and glorious still, 
And free, and indivisible. 

So may the future days 

Come nobly to our State: 

When, prosperous and great, 

Her citizens shall praise 

Those who gave life and all to consecrate 
Their land to liberty; 

And bade their watchword be 
These words in granite here, 

To freemen ever dear, 

Montani semper Liberi. 

From Soldiers’ Monument Poem. 

CHRISTMAS 

Their galleys hauled upon the shore, 

Huge Norsemen, in their chiefain’s hall, 
Feasted while Yule-logs flashed and lit 
Axes and swords upon the wall: 

Half-roasted meat the tables piled 
Barbaric feast for warriors wild. 

Seen in that lurid, smoky light, 

How brutal every Northman’s face! 

How vast each hero’s bulky form, 

From sire to son, a giant race! 

Round each fierce face, that feasted there, 

Hung tangles wild of flaxen hair. 

They drained the mead from oaken pails; 

They shouted, sang, in savage glee; 

They drank to heroes and their gods 
In rude, tumultuous revelry: 

The timbers rough, that roofed them o’er, 
Shook with their huge throat’s deafening roar. 


WILLIAM LEIGHTON 


147 


That feast, at winter’s solstice kept 
By heathen of an elder day, 

The Christian world has still preserved, 
Though milder honors now we pay; 

Of Yule, our Christmas takes the place— 
We, children of that northern race. 

When, nineteen hundred years ago, 

In Bethlehem a babe was born, 

The holy Mary with him lay 
In lowly stable on that morn 
When overhead shone down the star 
That led the Magi from afar; 

And Bethlehem’s shepherds, tending flocks, 
Heard a sweet choir of angels sing, 
Beneath that star’s benignant light, 

All anthem to their new-born king; 

And knelt to bless morn’s dawning ray 
That ushered in the Christmas day. 

A sacred message, sent to tell 
Of universal brotherhood, 

Of purer faith, of larger life, 

Of the ennobling power of Good, 

Shone, like a holy diadem, 

In the fair star of Bethlehem: 

A Savior born to bless the world; 

FYom fables, myths, and gods of Greece, 
To free the hearts and souls of men—- 
A Savior and a God of Peace. 

Celestial light from Heaven above 
Was shining o’er the birth of Love: 

0 wondrous birth so long ago! 

0 glory of a Christmas day! 

And if the w T orld must still be blind, 

With nineteen centuries passed away, 


148 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Yet ever Love, with deathless light, 

Is shining through the darkest night. 


Now round our fathers’ hearths we meet 
When Christmas comes with waning year, 
Renewing those domestic ties 
Though sundered oft, yet ever dear— 
Brothers and sisters, children, all, 

The grandsire old, the grandchild small: 

Around the table happy faces 
Are lighted by a sweet content; 

The hearty laughter, joyous chatting, 

Fill up the time with merriment; 

And toasts are drunk with speech and song 
While love and joy the feast prolong. 

And later, when the feast is o’er, 

The evening hours are bright and gay, 

And music lends its witching power, 

With joyous strains to crown the day, 

While dancing forms flit to and fro 
’Neath holly branch and mistletoe. 

Dear recollections of those days 

Return to us in after years 

When now, perchance, we meet no more; 

Nor Christmas brings its wonted cheers, 

As colder comes the festal day, 

Brothers and sisters far away: 

Death may have thinned the joyous band, 
The hearth now cold where once we met, 
Scattered the children of one sire. 

But those dear ties we ne’er forget: 

Round Christmas cluster memories dear, 
The hallowed time of all the vear: 


WILLIAM LEIGHTON 


149 


The Christmas days of earlier life 
Come back to memory with their throng 
Of recollections of our youth: 

Bright scenes, dear friends, to them belong— 
Those halcyon days when griefs were few, 
And life more sweet than then we knew. 

Though smaller now the number be 
Of those dear ones who greet the day, 

The closer grow the ties of love 
To those death spares to cheer our way; 
And Hope suggests, another land 
At length will reunite our band. 

A SONNET IS A JEWEL 

A sonnet is a jewel that should shine 

With lustre like a diamond; its light, 
Refracted by each facet, gleaming bright 
From a clear central fire; its every line 
Wrought by the poet’s art in fashion fine; 

But if he shape its brilliance not aright, 
Although the gem be precious, ruined quite 
Is all its beauty and its fair design. 

Whether it hath the diamond’s purity, 

The ruby’s depth of passion, or express 
Hope like the emerald, it yet must glow 
With poet inspiration, and must be 
A thing of beauty, truth, or daintiness, 
Fashioned by art, its preciousness to show. 


6 


150 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

SLEEPY HOLLOW 

Though life be tranquil here, yet, after this, 

Is there a life of more tranquility 

Within each quiet grave’s small boundary? 

Can Death our hopes and passions then dismiss 
With the cold touch of his dissolving kiss? 

Ah! who may gauge this deepest mystery, 
Momentous secret of the life to be?— 

Eternal sleep or waking?—pain or bliss? 

But restful seems the last abiding place 
In Sleepy Hollow of the village dead. 

Here lieth Emerson; the Alcotts here; 

Hawthorne and Thoreau. Genius, virtue, grace, 
And reach of thought were in the lives they led; 
But larger thought now theirs, and sight more clear. 


TIME, BREAK THY GLASS! 

Time, break thy glass, and stay thy flight! 

Why should the days so quickly pass? 
Rest thee, and learn sweet rest’s delight!— 
Time, break thy glass! 

Time, drop thy cruel scythe of might, 

That kills so many hopes, alas! 

O spare the world thy ancient spite!— 

Time, break thy glass! 

Time, clear thy brow of gloom and fright! 

Let smiles, within thy heart, amass 
The soul’s glad sunshine, warm and white!— 
Time, break thy glass! 



AMANDA ELLEN KING 
(Mrs. David H. King) 

A manda Ellen King, nee Ruddell, was born in April, 
1846. In February, 1879, she was married to 
Rev. David H. King, who was then pastor of the 
Presbyterian Church in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. 
Mrs. King lived at Lonaconing, Maryland, from 1880 
until 1887. For the following thirty-five years she re¬ 
sided in Vineland, New Jersey, where for twenty-five 
years her husband was pastor of the Presbyterian Church. 
Since May, 1921, she has been living in Hollywood, Cali¬ 
fornia, where Mr. King died October, 1921. Mrs. King 
has three children; Vera and Mrs. Zeta Schreckengost of 
Hollywood, and Arthur Raymond of Philadelphia, Penn¬ 
sylvania. She has four brothers all of whom live in 
West Virginia. 

Mrs. King is widely known as the author of one of 
our most popular State songs, “The West Virginia 
Hills,” which was written in 1879 while she was on her 
wedding trip from Glenville, West Virginia to her new 
home in Punxsutawney. In 1885, Mr. H. E. Engle of 
Lloydsville, West Virginia composed the melody to which 
the words of “The West Virginia Hills” are now sung. 

THE WEST VIRGINIA HILLS 

Oh! the West Virginia hills! 

How majestic and how grand, 

With their summits bathed in glory, 

Like our Prince Irnfmanuel’s land! 

Is it any wonder then, 

That my heart with rapture thrills, 

As I stand once more with loved ones 
On those West Virginia hills? 

151 


152 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Chorus.—0 the hills, beautiful hills, 

How I love those West Virginia hills; 

If o’er sea or land I roam 
Still I’ll think of happy home, 

And the friends among the West Virginia 
hills. 

Oh, the West Virginia hills! 

Where my girlhood’s hours were passed; 

Where I often wandered lonely, 

And the future tried to cast; 

Many are our visions bright 
Which the future ne’er fulfills; 

But how sunny were my day-dreams 
On those West Virginia hills! 


—Chorus. 

Oh, the West Virginia hills! 

How unchanged they seem to stand, 

With their summits pointed sky-ward 
To the Great Almighty’s Land! 

Many changes I can see, 

Which my heart with sadness fills, 

But no changes can be noticed 
In those West Virginia hills! 

—Chorus. 

Oh, the West Virginia hills! 

I must bid you now adieu; 

In my home beyond the mountains 
I shall ever dream of you; 

In the evening time of life, 

If my Father only wills, 

I shall still behold the vision 
Of those West Virginia hills! 


—Chorus. 


DANSKE DANDRIDGE 

anske Dandridge was the daughter of Hon. Henry 
Bedinger and Caroline (Lawrence) Bedinger, both 
of whom were members of distinguished families. 
She was born in Copenhagen, November 19, 1854, while 
her father was United States Minister to Denmark. She 
was called Danske, little Dane, in the language of her 
birthplace. When she was three years old, her parents 

returned to America, 
where they shortly died. 
Their daughter was rear¬ 
ed by her grandfather, 
Hon. John W. Lawrence 
of Flushing, Long Island. 
She was educated pri¬ 
vately and was graduat¬ 
ed with the highest hon¬ 
ors from a well known 
school in Staunton, Vir¬ 
ginia. On May 3, 1877 
she married Hon. A. S. 
Dandridge and came to 
Rose Brake, near Shep- 
herdstown, West Vir¬ 
ginia, which remained 
her home until her death 
on June 4, 1914. Here 
she wrote poems that appeared in The Independent , 
Harpers, The Century and other magazines, and that 
won for her recognition in the literary world. Her 
verse received the commendation of Lowell and Holmes 
and also Whittier who used an example of her work in 
his “Songs of Three Centuries.” Edmund Clarence 




153 



154 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Stedman also appreciated her poems and included ‘‘The 
Dead Moon” and “The Spirit of the Fall” in his 
“American Anthology.” 

Mrs. Dandridge's collected poems first appeared in 
two volumes, “Jov and Other Poems” and .“Rose 
Brake,” both of which are now out of print. Most of 
these poems were included in an enlarged edition of ‘‘Joy 
and Other Poems" which was published in 1900. 

Mrs. Dandridge is a nature poet whose delicacy of 
fancy and charm of expression have won the admiration 
of her readers. She excels in the gift of fitting nature 
to human moods and feelings. 

Doctor Waitman Barbe says of Mrs. Dandrige: 
“But she is not a nature poet at all in the sense which 
that word has carried since the time of Wordsworth; she 
is the poet rather of nature’s blossoms and birds and 
moonlight mysteries. To be the laureate of elf-land and 
of rose-land requires a. delicate touch, and hers is both 
delicate and sure. She is master of her art as well as 
of her elves, and her verses are, metrically considered, 
almost faultless. Such exquisite workmanship is a de¬ 
light. If a rose is her theme, the poem embodying it is 
as perfect as a rose. Her song sparrows and her thrushes 
never sing out of rhyme." 

Douglas Sladen in his introduction to “Younger 
American Poets (1891) says: “To my mind almost the 
most poetical among young poetesses are Danske Dan¬ 
dridge and Helen Gray Cone. Their style and choice 
of subjects are quite different but both have the genuine 
note—are really songbirds.Both are happy and in¬ 

genious in their metre and fresh in their feeling." 

From 1904 until 1909, Mrs. Dandridge devoted most 
of her time to writing for garden magazines. “Spireas 
for Foliage Effects,” “Old Monarch of Tulip Trees,” 
“American Viburnums,” and “My Garden from Day 
to Day," a serial, were published in Country Life in 
America and in The Country Calendar. 

She was also the author of valuable historical works 
including “George Michael Bedinger, a Kentucky Pion- 


Rose Brake, the Home of Danske Dandridge 




























DANSKE DANDRIDGE 


155 


eer,” “Historic Shepherdstown,” and “American Pris¬ 
oners of the Revolution,” all of which show painstaking 
and scholarly research on the part of the author and are 
distinguished for their clear and interesting style. 


TO MY COMRADE TREE 

“The tree is grown that shall yield to each. 

his last ‘narrow house and dark/ ”—Country Parson. 

Remote in woods where thrushes chant; 

Or on some lonely mountain slope; 

Or in a copse, the cuckoo’s haunt— 

With fingers pointing to the cope, 

There stands a tree, there stands a tree, 

Must fall before they bury me. 

0 waiting heart, where’er thou art, 

At last thy dust with mine shall blend; 
For though we spend our days apart, 

We come together at the end; 

And thou with me, and I with thee, 

Must lie in perfect unity. 

Within a cramped confine of space, 

And owning naught of earth beside, 

That heart must be my dwelling-place 
For whom the world was not too wide. 

A new-time Dryad, mine must be 
The shape that shall inhabit thee. 

Perchance in some lone wandering 
On thine old roots I may have lain, 

And heard above the wood-birds sing, 

While God looked down upon us twain; 
And did I feel no thrill, with thee, 

Of fellowship and sympathy? 




156 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Is thy strong heart ne’er wearied out 
With standing ’neath the overfreight 
Of boughs that compass thee about, 

With mass of green, or white, a-weight? 
O patient tree, O patient tree! 

Dost never long for rest, like me? 

I know thou spreadest grateful shade 
When fierce the noontide sun doth beat; 
Amd birds their nests in thee have made, 

And cattle rested at thy feet: 

Heaven grant I make this life of mine 
As beautiful and brave as thine! 

And when thy circling cloak is doffed 
Thou standest on the storm-swept sod 
And liftest thy long arms aloft 
In mute appealing to thy God: 

Appeal for me, appeal for me, 

That I may stand as steadfastly. 

Let me fulfil my destiny 

And calmly wait for thee, 0 friend! 

For thou must fall, and I must die, 

And come together at the end— 

To quiet slumbering addressed; 

Shut off from storm; shut in for rest. 

Thus lying in God’s mighty hand 
While His great purposes unfold, 

We’ll feel, as was from Chaos planned, 

His breath inform our formless mould: 
New shape for thee, new life for me, 

For both, a vast eternity. 

TO MEMORY 

Ah! lovely lady with the stillest eyes; 

As calm as Death’s; deep as the summer sea; 

Just shaded by a downy cloud that lies, 


DANSKE DANDRIDGE 


157 


White as a swan, between blue heaven and thee: 
Thou lookest backward still, Mnemosyne. 

Thy reveries are dear as poets’ dreams; 

On childhood’s innocence thou lov’st to dwell; 

On homely pleasures, and the simple themes 

And tender tales that youthful mothers tell 
To little children for a slumber-spell. 

Yet I have known thee when thy mood was black; 

When wild Regret had clutched thee, as a prey; 
And I have marked thee shudder, looking back, 

And turn thy strained and startled eyes away 
From some grim, muffled shape of cloudy gray. 

Som'etimes I meet thee when the night is clear, 

For thou art gossip to our Lady Moon, 

Who liketh well thy plaintive voice to hear 
Chanting low music of an ancient rune 
She sang before the worlds were out of tune. 

All things are softened through thy filmy veil: 

In misty light a lovely landscape lies; 

Vistas of ’passing beauty, fading, frail; 

Tinted with hues of Youth, and Love’s surprise, 
And rainbowed with the tear-drops in thine eyes. 

I know thou makest many a holy hour 

For those who look their lives of patience o’er: 
They love thee most who least have feared thy power, 
From whom thou dost inherit richest store 
Of pleasant days and deeds that are no more. 

Oft have I sought thee, pensive Memory, where, 

With Melancholy for thy handmaid meek, 

Thou dost discourse with such a moving air 

That I may only pray when I would speak, 

For prayers are strength, though all my words are weak. 


158 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


THE YUCCA 

The glamour flower doth bloom again: 

The flower of which the Moon is fain. 

Down the long border, in the night, 

Glides the Moon-maiden, faintly white. 

Under the Yuccas I saw her stand, 

Resting a cheek on a slender hand. 

The great white blossoms shone and shone: 

A moment more—the dream had flown. 

0 Yucca! Flower of mystery! 

How the Moon-maiden loveth thee! 

Long, long ago, e’er the world was old, 

When the sad Moon felt she was turning cold, 

Down to the earth her flower she sent; 
Pearl-bloom and tear-drop lustre blent: 

And now, when they bloom in the border there, 
The Moon-maid floats from her home so bare, 

In the lone garden a space to weep 
While yearning fancies invest our sleep. 

’Tis the saddest, the sweetest day o’ the year, 
For in every cup I have found a tear,— 

A tear that smiles with a tender light: 

And I know who shed them, yesternight. 

THE SPIRIT AND THE WOOD-SPARROW 

’Twas long ago: 

The place was very fair; 

And from a cloud of snow 


DANSKE DANDRIDGE 


159 


A spirit of the air 
Dropped to the earth below. 

It was a spot by man untrod,— 

Just where 

I think is only know r n to God. 

The spirit for a while, 

Because of beauty freshly made, 

Could only smile: 

Then grew the smiling to a song, 

And as he sang he played 
Upon a moonbeam-wired cithole, 

Shaped like a soul. 

There w r as no ear 
Or far or near 

Save one small sparrow of the wood 
That song to hear. 

This, in a bosky tree, 

Heard all, and understood 
As much as a small sparrow could 
By sympathy. 

Twas a fair sight— 

That morn of spring 
When, on the lonely height, 

The spirit paused to sing, 

Then through the air took flight, 

Still lilting on the wing. 

And the shy bird, 

Who all had heard, 

Straightway began 
To practice o’er the lovely strain, 

Again, again; 

Though indistinct and blurred, 

He tried each word, 

Until he caught the last far sounds that fell, 
Like the faint tinkle of a fairy bell. 


160 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Now, when I hear that song, 

Which has no earthly tone, 

My soul is carried with the strain along 
To the everlasting Throne, 

To bow in thankfulness and prayer, 

And gain fresh love, and faith, and patience there. 

DESIRE 
(An April Idyl) 

Come, dear Desire, and walk with me; 

We’ll gather sweets and rob the bee; 

Come, leave the dimness of your room,; 

We’ll watch how since the morning rain 
The spider sitteth at her loom, 

To weave her silken nets again. 

I know a field where bluets blow r 

Like frost from fingers of the night, 

And in a sheltered coppice grow 

Arbutus trailers, blush and white. 

She leaves the room and walks with me 
Where dance the leaflets fairily; 

Across the stile and o’er the grass, 

And down the shaded copse we pass. 

What sv r eeter bliss beneath the sun 

Than through the wooded ways to go 
With her whose heart is almost won, 

And let the fulness overflow! 

Her voice is ringing clear and blithe: 

I mark her motions free and lithe: 

Sometimes the briers that lift her dress 
Reveal the ankle’s gracefulness. 

The flowers on wdiich she will not tread, 

Pay homage with each nodding head, 

As though the Lady May, their queen, 

Were lightly pacing o’er the green. 

The bluebird to my suit gives heed; 

The wood-thrush wishes me good speed; 


DANSKE DANDRIDGE 


161 


And every bird in every tree 
That peeps at her and peers at me, 

Sings loud encouragement and long 
And bids us welcome in his song. 

Kind stones, I thank you for your grace; 

I bless each wet and marshy place; 

Low piles of logs, and fallen fence, 

I owe ye twain a recompense; 

With prostrate tree, and matted vine, 
Each bar that gives occasion sweet 
To hold her supple hand in mine, 

And teach her where to place her feet. 

See, my Desire, the mossy nook 
Where grows the pink anemone: 

I’ll kindly lift you o’er the brook, 

And ’neath the drooping dogwood tree 
We’ll sit and watch the m(ating birds 
And put their wooing into words. 

O downcast eyes! 0 tender glow! 

0 little hand that trembles so! 

O throbbing heart and fluttering breast 1 
0 timid passion, half-confessed! 

We hear, and scarcely know we hear, 

The redbird whistle bold and clear; 
Beneath the blooming dogwood bough 
The moments pass, we know not how, 

Till day is on her burning pyre, 

And I have won my heart’s Desire. 

THE SONG SPARROW 

When, with her sandals green, the Spring 
Steals on, with timid pattering, 

And tearful lids and wind-blown hair 
Half-veil the face we find so fair; 

Into my window, morn by morn, 


162 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


The sparrow’s simple strain is borne, 

With varied carols that express 
His wild and happy carelessness. 

And as I hear his roundelay, 

Sometimes, with half a sigh, I say: 

“0 sparrow, were you caged like me 
Would you exult so ringingly? 

Or did you bear a broken wing, 

My gentle neighbor, could you sing?” 

BLOODROOT 

A countless multitude they stand, 

A Milky Way on either hand, 

Ere yet the earliest Perns unfold 
Or meadow Cowslips count their gold. 

White are my dreams, but whiter still 
The Bloodroot on the lonely hill; 

Lovely and pure my visions rise, 

To fade before my yearning eyes; 

But on that day I thought I trod 
’Mid the embodied dreams of God. 

Though frail those flowers, though brief their 
sway, 

They sanctified one perfect day; 

And, though the summer may forget, 

In my rapt soul they blossom yet. 

THE STRUGGLE 

“Body, I pray you, let me go!” 

It is a Soul that struggles so. 

“Body, I see on yonder height 
Dim reflex of a solemn light; 

A light that shineth from the place 
Where Bearnty walks with naked face: 

It is a light you cannot see:— 

Lie down, you clod, and set me free. 


DANSKE DANDRIDGE 


163 


“Body, I pray yon, let me go!” 

It is a Soul that striveth so. 

“Body, I hear dim sounds afar, 

Dripping from some diviner star; 

Dim sounds of holy revelry: 

It is my mates that sing, and I 

Must drink that song or break my heart:— 

Body, I pray you, let us part. 

‘ ‘ Comrade, your frame is worn and frail; 
Your vital force begins to fail: 

I long for life; but you for rest: 

Then, Body, let us both be blest. 

When you are lying ’neath the dew 
I’ll come, sometimes, and sing to you: 

But you will feel nor pain nor woe:— 
Body, I pray you, let me go! ” 

Thus strove a Being. Beauty-fain, 

He broke his bonds and fled amain. 

He fled: the Body lay bereft, 

But on his lips a smile was left, 

As if that spirit, looking back, 

Shouted upon his upward track, 

With joyous tone and hurried breath, 

Some message that could comfort Death. 


HU MAXWELL 


r ~*EW West Virginians have had more interesting or 
more varied experiences than has had Hu Maxwell, 
who was born in Tucker County, West Virginia, 
in 1860, of parents of English, German, and Irish an¬ 
cestry. 

He was taught at home by his mother until he was 
fifteen years of age. In 1876, he entered school at Wes¬ 
ton and was graduated in 1880. He was appointed a 
cadet engineer to the United States Naval Academy at 
Annapolis, but he w r as forced to resign, because of ill 
health and impaired eyesight due to his close applica¬ 
tion to his studies. 

After his return home he spent the following two 
years in teaching and in the lumbering business. For 
a large part of his life he has been an editor and printer. 

Since 1882, Mr. Maxwell has lived or has spent some 
time in every one of the forty-eight states of the Union, 
and has been in every county in many of them. Much 
of his travel has been occasioned by his work as an ex¬ 
pert in forestry for the United States Forest Service. 
He has taken part in the surveys of about twenty states. 

He is the author of histories of Tucker, Hampshire, 
Randolph, Barbour and Monongalia Counties, a history 
of West Virginia, “Evans and Sontag,” “Lost Beyond 
the Mountains,’’ Idyls of the Golden Shore,” and other 
books, as well as a number of bulletins written for the 
Government. “Idyls of the Golden Shore” is made up 
of poems relating to California. In the preface, he says, 
“They were written, for the most part; at night by my 
campfire, while on the Western plains and deserts, or 
during stormy days in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, 
when I could not leave shelter; frequently also, in the 


HU MAXWELL 


165 


noise and confusion of a camp full of frontiersmen or 
Indians with nothing to do but sing and talk.” 

Mr. Maxwell’s latest work is “American Tree His¬ 
tory,” a book regarding the trees of the United States. 
To collect the data for this volume of more than one 
thousand pages, he visited every State in the Union one 
or more times and saw and examined more than six hun¬ 
dred of the six hundred and eighty species of trees found 
in the United States. 

At present, Mr. Maxwell is living in Evanston, 
Illinois. 

THE GOLDEN GATE 

Where the mountains break abruptly from their domes 
of mist and gloom, 

Down to vernal vales and valleys, bright with flowers 
in their bloom, 

Where the ocean’s waves grow milder as they sink into 
their rest 

In that harbor’s placid stillness, at the Gateway of the 
West; 

There a beauteous city rises, looking over all below, 
O’er the images of mountains, pictured where the billows 
flow 

Slowly, grandly, and unbroken through the rock-embat¬ 
tled strait, 

From the wide and dreary ocean, landward through the 
Golden Gate. 

City, resting in thy beauty on thy ocean-fretted hills, 
Like an Oriental vision, vivid as when slumber fills 
All the world with fairy phantoms; City on the shining 
shore 

Of thy greenland occidental, thou are beauteous ever¬ 
more ! 

Thou art sitting at the portal of this summer-blooming 
land, 

With its clear and crystal rivers rushing o’er the golden 
sand; 


166 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Thou art proud and regal, City, sitting on thy throne 
of state, 

Hailing ships from every ocean sailing through the 
Golden Gate. 

Guard them well, as thou hast guarded in the years 
which are no more; 

Hail them welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome to the 
shining shore! 

Smile across the waste of waters; let the mirror of the 
deep 

Limner thee in all thy beauty, till the waves are lulled 
to sleep; 

Till the billows cease their raging on the rocks and reefs 
afar, 

And are dreaming in the beaming of the gleaming ves¬ 
per star. 

Beckon gladsome words of welcome from thy queenly 
throne of state 

To the sails that come forever sweeping through the 
Golden Gate. 

0 what thousand myriad thousand sails from earth’s 
remotest seas, 

Driven long before the tempests, have come swelling with 
the breeze 

Gladly to the promised haven underneath the friendly 
hill, 

Safe at last from the tornadoes that the roaring ocean 
fill! 

O what hopes and what ambitions, and what longings 
and unrest 

Have come proudly up the harbor of this Venice of the 
West! 

O the hopes and disappointments—spirits crushed by 
iron fate, 

Bright a moment, hoping, longing, sweeping through 
the Golden Gate! 


HU MAXWELL 


167 


Gate of Beauty, bid them welcome. Mock not hope that 
runneth wild; 

Thou hast sheltered and protected many and many a 
truant child, 

Kneeling down to thee in blindness, offering himself 
to thee; 

For thee leaving home and country out beyond the 
stormy sea. 

Shore of Brightness, thou hast bidden them to come from 
every clime, 

Hast allured them with the vaguest dreams e’er told in 
prose or rhyme; 

And they hearkened to thy whisper, and with boundless 
hope elate, 

Came they, borne by sails of silver, sweeping through 
the Golden Gate. 

There are histories unwritten, stories never to be told, 

Dreams unrealized and fading like the fantasies of old; 

There were hopes that are no longer, with their idols 
they have died, 

On the desert and the mountain they have perished 
side by side; 

Highest aims were those that counted least in summing 
at the last; 

Schemes that wmve the stars in garlands have to every 
wind been cast. 

Vain! But ignorance had blessed them; burnished gilt 
concealed the fate 

That was lurking in the very shadows of the Golden Gate. 

Golden Gate, thou shining portal of the beauteous land 
and fair, 

Thou the minion of the ocean, seas, and islands every¬ 
where ! 

Were it well to wish that ever thou mayst be as in the 
yore, 

Isle-Calypso of the nations, weary dreamer’s Lotus 
Shore! 


168 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Is the mystic spell yet broken ? Has the vision vanished 
yet? 

Art thou still the sunlit haven, though a thousand suns 
have set? 

By the ocean art thou waiting, and ambitious still to 
wait 

For the Future’s fleets and navies, 0 thou wondrous 
Golden Gate! 

CALIFORNIA 

Fair western realm that borders on the sea, 

Kissed by the sun’s last ray at eventide, 

Full many a true, true heart has beat for thee, 

Adored and loved thee with devoted pride. 

I too, although a stranger on thy shore, 

Would claim thee for a season as my own; 

Thou dreamlike country, radiant evermore, 

No sun on fairer land has ever shone. 

And I have loved thy valleys calm and still; 

I’ve roamed at random o’er thy boundless plains; 

I’ve lingered long on many and many a hill, 

Where nature sleeps in peace and silence reigns. 

Thy snow-white mountains rising to the sky 

Have thronged my spirit with submissive dread, 

Thrilled with the panorama wild and high, 

Among creation’s tombs of mighty dead. 

And I have rested, there above the clouds, 

On rocky crags wrapped in eternal snow, 

While mlists like sailing ships with silver shrouds 
Swept white and wonderful afar below. 

I’ve loved thy storms at times; for in the hour 
Of tempests and tornadoes I can feel 

A grandeur in the gloom of darkest power, 

When thoughts rush forth too mighty to conceal. 


HU MAXWELL 


Then, land of rapture, fairer and more bright 
Than other realms of earth, I came to thee, 
And loved thee, left thee, but thy summer light 
Will beam in splendor evermore for me. 


EMMA WITHERS 


E mma Withers was born in Weston, West Virginia, 
in the early fifties. She is the daughter of Henry 
Howard Withers and Dorcas D. (Lorentz) Withers, 
and the granddaughter of Alexander Scott Withers, the 
well known author of “Chronicles of Border Warfare.” 
In writing of her life, Miss Withers says: “Personally, 
I have been a chink-filler and a minder of the gaps of 
life—a pioneer school teacher in my girlhood, a settle¬ 
ment worker and mission teacher in later life—somewhat 
of an idler to-day; but always an idealist, a dreamer of 
dreams and a beholder of optimistic visions. The way 
has not always been smooth to my feet, but I know that 
life is a great gift or a great God would not have given 
it.” 

Miss Withers is the author of “Wildwood Chimes,” 
a volume of verse which was highly commended by re¬ 
viewers, and which found a large number of interested 
and appreciative readers. Doctor F. V. N. Painter says: 
“In the verse of Miss Withers there is a tender sym¬ 
pathy with nature that opens her eyes to its beauties, 
and her heart to its teachings. In its quiet retreats she 
finds a peace unknown among the noisy haunts of men. 

.'Wildwood Chimes’ as a whole is inspired by 

nature, and is as poetic and pleasing as its name would 
indicate. ’ ’ 


INDIAN PIPES 

Beyond the fields of lowing kine, 

Within a solitude divine, 

Where drowsy summer deftly weaves 
Her fancies into beechen leaves, 


170 




EMMA WITHERS 


171 


These spirit flowers softly shine 
Like waxen tapers on a shrine; 

Or vases filled with seeded wine 

That some Circean revel grieves,— 

In Camden Wood. 

I drift across the shadow line 

That lies between thy home and mine, 

And wrapped in Fancy’s silken sleeves, 
I find within her charmed sheaves, 

0, Fairyland, these elves of thine 
In Camden Wood. 

HEPATIC A 

Through changing time, year after year, 

At the old tryst thou meet’st me here, 
Sweetheart, thyself unchanged and fair 
With brave true eyes and fringy hair, 

And evanescent, strange perfume 
Enwrapped within thy tinted bloom. 

The kindly forests well did keep 
The secret of thy winter sleep, 

And russet coverlet it spread 
With loving hand above thy head. 

Through the long night this sturdy tree 
A faithful watch kept over thee. 

And ere the bluebird’s glancing wing 
Announcing the coming of the spring, 
Again to fairer beauty born, 

Thou art risen on this Easter morn 
In the wild March, when, singing shrill, 
The storm-winds break against the hill. 

But yesterday I brought to thee 
A child’s heart beating high and free, 

A footstep swift as swallow’s flight, 


172 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

A child’s unquestioning delight, 

And all the strange bright hopes that rise 
Like singing birds ’neath April skies. 

But yesterday the shining rill 
Came laughing from the craggy hill; 

So near, so clear its voices seem 
The hollow years are but a dream 
That slowly weaves its shadowy bands 
About the springtime’s flowery lands. 

The weary brain, the heart of care 
In thy grave clothes are buried there; 

And in the chill March Easter morn 
Again, within my bosom born, 

The child-soul rises joyously, 

Hepatica, to welcome thee. 

AT SWITHIN’S RUN 

I 

The Walk 
The work-day life lies far away, 

And in the dawning of the day 
Along the pathway by the Run, 

Whose course goes onward with the sun, 

Is spread the web of fancy gay 
Beneath the feet which pass that way. 

Wild winds have swept the woodland clear 
Of summer charms, yet life is here. 

In beds of softest russet spread 
The dry leaves rustle to the tread 

Of shy, soft-footed things that love 
The freedom of a mountain cove. 

And close beside a hidden spring 
Wherein the water-spirits sing, 

All sheltered warm beneath the hill 
The maiden-hair is waving still. 

And the brown earth beneath the feet 
Resounds with echoes low and sweet. 


EMMA WITHERS 


173 


From throbbing heart of life sublime 
The currents well with rhythmic chime; 
They tune the wild bird’s mellow glee, 

And swell the veins of meanest tree. 

And he who listens now may hear 
The springtime whispers in his ear. 

The work-day life lies far away, 

And fancy rules the dawn of day. 

II 

The Visitors 

The bell had rung; and up the criss-cross logs 
Which duty did for steps, a scrambling host 
Of urchins came whose variegated heads 
Were busied soon o’er book and slate; and scarce 
Had silence fallen when there came a rap 
So deep, so loud, of such aggressive length 
The very stones in the foundation heard. 

And following it into the room there came 
With heavy tread and features grimly set 
With the importance of a mission high, 

Three hardy followers of the plow, with locks 
Unkempt and grizzly beard unshorn 
And homespun “wamus” knotted at each waist, 
W T ith kindly greeting the schoolmistress bade 
Them enter and be seated, wond’ring still 
Why such scant courtesy her words repaid, 

And what the purpose of the dismal three. 

Too brief the problem long to vex her soul; 
‘‘Them’s the trustees,” the echo softly crept 
Among the tilted benches, and a show 
Of diligence fell on the knowing ones. 

“Yes, Sir! I heard Bill Underly tell Pap, 

Las’ night, they wuz a-comin’ down to give 
The teacher Hail Columby somethin’ ’bout 
Wastin’ such lots o’ chalk, and sparkin’ of”— 
Here sharply called the recitation bell, 

And the stage whispers of the “Primers” ceased. 
The hours fled and still the men of fate 


174 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Took silent cognizance of all that passed, 
Followed the shifting classes in their work, 

And hung upon each question and reply 
In silence, till the mighty hill had thrown 
Its shadows vast and deep across the wastes 
Of fragrant pennyroyal; then with brief 
And grave-voiced conference among themselves, 
Arose and still in silence gained the door 
Where they a moment stood shuffling their feet 
Uneasily, and then the eldest turned 
And combing out his beard with nervous hand, 
Like one whose conscience pricks him to a task 
Unwelcome most, looked down into the eyes 
Of questioning laughter raised to his and said: 
“The law makes it our dooty to inspect 
This school; an ? havin’ nothin’ else to do, 
Pertickiler, today, we’ve come to see 
Ef you wuz goin’ a’cordin’ to the law. 

The gal that kept last winter give a sight 
More time to sparkin’ than to spellin’, so 
We had not ’lowed to hire a gal ag’in; 

But all the boys who are high l’arnt enough 
To teach in town have got too big to come 
So fur up the Run; an’ so we done 
The best we could by takin’ you. W-e-11, n-o-, 
There ain’t ben no complaint, pertickiler, 

Agin’ the school, exceptin’ there wuz talk 
Down at the mill about that young town chap 
Hitchin’ his critter to the school-house steps 
As much as twict sence Christmas. Brother, hey 
Now, Lizy Ann allowed you favored some. 

So there’s an end o’ that. I’m pow’ful glad. 
Sparkin’ ’ll ruin any school alive. 

W-e-11, y-e-s, some little talkin’ has ben done 
Concernin’ your odd way o’ teachin’ chaps 
To read an’ write before they’ve l’arnt to spell 
In double sittables; an’ some do say 
That you don’t teach the alpliybet a-tall. 

O’ course we don’t believe sech stuff as that, 


EMMA WITHERS 


175 


For when I heard them little fellers there 
A-readin’ their Fu’st Readers right along— 

An’ po’try, too—an’ never skip a word, 

I reckoned that you know what you’re about. 
About that chalk? 0, that was jest some word 
We had from the young man in Johnses’ store; 

He thought you must be wastin’ lots o’ chalk. 

An’ Squire Moss—He’s Pres’dent o’ the Board— 
Said how, as guardeens o’ the school, that we 
Had better jest step in an’ let you know 
The deestrick only furnishes one box. 

The regeler amount last winter wuz 
Two sticks a week; an’ most of it wuz left 
Kickin’ about the house when school wuz out. 

But when I see them little fellers go 
Up to yan board an’ chalk their lessons down 
In real good writin’ letters, sech as I 
Wuz never l’arnt to make, as boy or man, 

I see there is some good in usin’ chalk; 

An’ ef the deestrick jumps the bill, I’ll pay. 
We’re not a-findin’ any fault of you, 

You’re doin’ party well, considerin’; 

An’ we stand by the teacher when we kin. 

But use the spellers jest a little more; 

An’ ef you should have any difficult 
Enforcin’ discerpline,—for there be some 
Real heady chaps upon the Run—or want 
Advice about the runnin’ of the school, 

You kin depend on us. Jest call on us.” 

AT NIGHT 

The weary day was with the past— 

Down from the hilltops swept the blast; 

It whistled through the branches bare 
And tossed the pine tree’s fragrant hair. 

But to the watcher by the fire 
The triumph of a strong desire 
Through all its choral changes rung, 

And ever through the songs it sung 


176 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

An old sweet glamour seemed to thrill. 

This was the world of fancy still; 

For gracious embers ne’er deny 
The quest of wistful dreamer’s eye, 

Nor show the witching forms they raise 
Unto another’s mocking gaze. 

And in the hollow land of flame 
Uprose the royal towers of fame; 

And gallant hosts came marching by 
On the fair plains of reverie. 

No knight e’er graced the Table Round 
As brave as he whose bugle sound 
Awoke those lists with challenge free 
To deeds of noblest chivalry. 

Lancelot was he, but without stain; 

More courtly than the gay Gawain; 

Than Galahad more pure and white 
He stood, her dream-created knight; 

And while the night winds wrought their will, 
Her thoughts went on to Camelot still. 
Unheeding all the jar and fret 
In fancy’s world she lingered yet. 


WAITMAN BARBE 

W ait man Barbe was born in Grant district, Monon¬ 
galia County, November 19, 1864. His father, 
John Barbe, a native of Shenandoah County, Vir¬ 
ginia, was of French descent. His mother, Margaret 
Esther (Robinson) Barbe, was of English ancestry. 

Doctor Barbe, after completing the course of study 
of the rural schools and of the preparatory department 

of West Virginia Uni¬ 
versity, took work in the 
University leading to an 
A. B. degree which was 
conferred upon him in 
1884. He later entered 
the graduate school of 
his Alma Mater, and re¬ 
ceived an A. AI. degree 
in 1887, and an M. S. 
degree in 1897. In 1900- 
01, he was a graduate 
student of Harvard, and 
in 1908-09 studied at 
Oxford. In 1904. Deni¬ 
son University honored 
«/ 

him with the degree of 
Doctor of Letters. 

From 1889 to 1895, 
he was city editor or managing editor of The Daily State 
Journal of Parkersburg. He was also editor of The West 
Virginia School Journal from 1904 to 1921, during which 
period he wrote many distinctive editorials as well as 
numerous articles on literature that were instructive and 
inspiring. 

On June 6, 1894, Doctor Barbe, was united in mar¬ 
riage to Miss Clara Louise Gould, a member of a prom¬ 
inent Parkersburg family. 



177 




178 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


In 1895, lie accepted a position in West Virginia 
University as assistant to the President and associate 
professor of English, and since 1910 has been professor 
of English in that institution. He is also director of 
the summer session of the University and under his ca- 
pable management the summer school has largely increas¬ 
ed in enrollment, and high standards of scholarship and 
instruction have been maintained. lie is an inspiring 
teacher and, through his scholarly and sympathetic inter¬ 
pretation of literature, hundreds of men and women 
who have had the privilege of receiving his instruction 
have felt as did Keats, when he became acquainted with 
Chapman's ‘“Homer:" 

“Like some watcher of the skies, 

When a new planet swims into his ken." 

Doctor Barbe is known not only as an interpreter of 
literature, but as an author. Ills works have been read 
with appreciation and pleasure both in America and in 
England, in 1891, he published a volume of poems 
entitled “Ashes and Incense," which received high praise 
from reviewers and critics. The Saturday Review (Lon¬ 
don, England) said of this book: “In Mr. Waitman 
Barbe’s volume of verse, ‘Ashes and Incense,’ we note 
a true singing capacity, and an unlabored strain like 
the song of the thrush of which the poet sings in “An 
Old Love Song.' " The Home Journal (Boston) com¬ 
mented thus on his work: “There is a strength, a beauty, 
and originality in his singing that are exceedingly pleas¬ 
ing, and at times a depth of thought that is poetically ex¬ 
pressed in a style of rare excellence.” Edmund Clar¬ 
ence Steelman wrote: “There is real poetry in the book, 
a voice worth owning and exercising. I am struck with 
the beauty and feeling of the lyrics that I have read—* 
such for example as the stanzas on Lanier and the ‘The 
Comrade Hills.' 

In 1896, Doctor Barbe published “In the Virginias,” 
a volume of stories and sketches in which he presents with 
rare insight and sympathy practically every type of 
character to be found in West Virginia. This book has 


WAITMAN BARBE 


179 


been highly praised for its originality, its excellent char¬ 
acterization, and its charming style. 

In 11 Going to College, ’ ’ the author has presented the 
advantages of higher education so convincingly that many 
a person who has attained success looks back to the read¬ 
ing of this book as a turning point in his life because it 
led to a decision to obtain a college education at all costs. 
Many thousands of copies of this book have been sold, and 
chapters of it have been translated into two or three 
foreign languages. 

Doctor Barbe has published three other books, ‘‘The 
Study of Poetry,” “Famous Poems Explained,” and 
“Great Poems Interpreted,” all of which have been 
most helpful to students of literature. The last two 
works have been widely used as texts in schools and col¬ 
leges of the United States and are found on the shelves 
of many libraries in Europe. 

Though in recent years Doctor Barbe has found little 
time for creative writing, during the World War he 
wrote several lyrics that rank among his best work. The 
finest of these, ‘ ‘ Stars of Gold, ’ ’ was read by the author, 
March 6, 1919, at the services held in Commencement 
Hall, West Virginia University, in memory of the Uni¬ 
versity men who gave their lives in the World War. 
This poem is regarded by many as the most exquisitely 
beautiful tribute paid to those who made the supreme sac¬ 
rifice for their country. In this lyric the poetic inspira¬ 
tion occasioned by the World War reached its height. 
It was reprinted in France and was in great demand 
there among American soldiers. 

SIDNEY LANIER 

0 spirit to a kingly holding born! 

As beautiful as any southern morn 
That wakes to woo the willing hills, 

Thy life was hedged about by ills 

As pitiless as any northern night; 

Yet thou didst make it as thy “Sunrise” bright. 


180 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


The seas were not too deep for thee; thine eye 
Was comrade with the farthest star on high. 
The marsh burst into bloom for thee, 

And still abloom shall ever be! 

Its sluggish tide shall henceforth bear away 
A charm it did not hold until thy day. 

And Life walks out upon the slipping sands 
With more of flowers in her trembling hands 
Since thou didst suffer and didst sing! 
And so to thy dear grave I bring 
One little rose, in poor exchange for all 
The flowers that from thy rich hand did fall. 

AN OLD LOVE-SONG 
The thrush doth pipe his mate 
An old love-song, 

And yet his love for her 
Is new and strong,— 

The song that fluttered hearts 
In ancient wood 
When God first saw the earth 
And called it good. 

No master’s symphony 
Hath lived so long 
As this bird’s plaintive, sweet, 

And old love-song,— 

A simple strain, without 
A touch of art, 

It lives because it comes 
Straight from the heart. 

SONG OF THE MONONGAHELA 
Hey-ho! I leave my haunts in the woods, 

I leave the land of snow; 

Hey-ho! I leave my mountain friends 
And away to the south I go; 


WAITMAN BARBE 


181 


Away to run through cotton-fields, 

Away to swell the orange yields, 

Away to be kissed by sun and breeze, 

Away to be mixed with shoreless seas. 

Hey-ho! to the wider world I run, 

Hey-ho! to the land o ’ the sun. 

I’ll fill the Beautiful River’s heart 
With joy as free as an elf; 

I’ll e’en become a very part 

Of the Father of Waters himself. 

With wider purpose, larger sweep, 

My steadfast course I’ll run, 

Like one whose aims in life reach out 
Till all his work be done, 

And he at last merged in the sea 
Whose farther shore no man 
Has ever glimpsed with earth bound eyes 
Since first the world began. 

The mighty, pulsing trade I’ll serve 
And yield to man’s behest; 

His burdens bear from land to sea 
Adown the wondrous west. 

And just as lovers sing to roe here 

When the shades of the hills reach out 
Across the water’s crystal bed 

And the harvest moon is near, 

E’en so beneath the southland shades, 

When the mocking bird sings low 
And the breeze comes up from the restless sea, 
They’ll sing to me there I know, 

When the air is rich with the odor of May, 
Swept in from distant pines, 

They ’ll sing to me then and vow their love 
Is measured by no confines. 

But back I’ll come to my mountain home 
To tell the woodland sprites 
How maidens’ sighs and thrushes’ songs 
Fill all the southern nights. 


182 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Like one who loves his childhood home 
That’s set among the hills, 

And oft returns from broader fields 
To feel its mystic thrills, 

So I shall come from the ocean’s sweep 
To hear the same old song, 

And leap the rocks and kiss the boughs 
That have waved for me so long. 

Then away to my task for the sons of men, 
Away through city and plain; 

The voices of comrades bid me stay, 
But all their tempting is vain. 

Hey-ho! to the wider world I run, 

Hey-ho! to the land o’ the sun. 

THE ROBIN’S CREED 

Pure worshipper, this Easter morn, 
Among the orchard aisles! 

Brave anthemer, thy creed shall win 
The world in afterwhiles! 

Thy creed,—’tis sweet as thine own song, 
And as the apple-bloom 

That com£th by and by to deck 
These naked aisles of gloom. 

Thy creed,— ’tis simple as thy notes 
That drop like beads of gold: 

’Tis new this morn, and yet Old Time 
Himself is not so old. 

Within thy creed is room for all 
The universe;—so great 

Thy heart that it contains no place 
That’s small enough for hate! 


WAITMAN BARBE 


183 


THE PREACHER OF THE 
THREE CHURCHES 

In a little old town, west of the Blue Ridge, there 
used to be a man who, the people said, worshipped the 
Lord and served the devil. He preached Calvinism and 
eternal damnation on Sundays, and drew a rosined bow 
across an old violin behind closed doors on week days. 

The town also contained a brood of lawyers, an old 
doctor, and a young one, a school teacher, some forty 
experienced gossips, a hundred or so dogs, and about four 
hundred other inhabitants. 

The preacher didn’t really live in the village, but a 
mile out on the country road, and preached for two other 
congregations besides the one in the village. 

He was a young bachelor whom the spinsters fre¬ 
quently invited to their tea parties, and he made his 
home with a family who loved him, and who faithfully 
kept the secret of his violin playing from the public. 

The Reverend Balak Mather was a New Englander, 
and had accepted the call from the three churches in the 
south without making any inquiry as to the salary he 
was to receive or the amount of work he would be ex¬ 
pected to do. He thought the call was a divine one, and, 
gathering up his fiddle and his Bible, he put the former 
in the bottom and the latter in the top of his trunk, and 
answered the call in person, just as he would have obeyed 
a command from President Lincoln to take a gun and go 
down and shoot these same brethren at the three 
churches. He never questioned a call from his God or 
his country. 

Arriving at the three churches, he found a scattered 
membership of Presbyterians, hospitable and cordial, but 
as firm in the faith and as strict in the creed as the New 
Englander himself; and they would have been shocked 
beyond expression if they had known that their new pas¬ 
tor not only played a fiddle, but had actually brought it 
with him in the same box with his Holy Bible. 

Nor did 1 the conscience of the Reverend Balak Math¬ 
er approve of his conduct. He felt that he w r as bartering 


184 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

his soul away little by little for the string that intoxicates. 
All of his life he had prayed earnestly but hopelessly to 
be delivered from the temptation—prayed every morn¬ 
ing that he might be able to live that day without touch¬ 
ing the unclean thing. But every evening w^hen the twi¬ 
light came on and a loneliness came over him, such as 
only the choice spirits of the world are permitted to suf¬ 
fer, he would forget the vow of the morning, take the 
old violin out of its old green case, close the windows and 
the doors, get down in the darkest corner of the room, 
and, gently touching the strings, call forth the souls of 
all the old loved ones now dead and gone. All the sweet 
voices, all the childhood tears, and tales, and fancies, 
every kiss of his mother’s lips, every form of speech that 
love had learned, seemed to him to come out of that old 
violin. 

And when the night was stormy and the wind howled 
and moaned, he would close his Bible, take up the violin, 
and, with trembling hand and guilty conscience, strike 
the strings until all the sins that he had ever committed 
came up out of the past, and he could hear the wails and 
sobs of all those who had gone down, down into the place 
of everlasting torment; and the soul of the violin seemed 
to mingle with his own soul in an agony of Unutterable 
misery and woe, for he felt that he loved the instrument 
with an unholy passion, as a man may love and be led to 
the depth of hell by a wicked and beautiful woman. 

His congregations knew nothing of all this. Their 
pastor was a faithful shepherd, leading his little flocks 
by the pure waters of Calvinism and by the green mead¬ 
ows of righteous living. 

The more he yielded to the temptations of the siren 
fiddle the more he atoned for it by preaching the doctrine 
of punishment and the law of retribution. And the more 
he fiddled the longer he preached to make up for it, so 
that sometimes his sermons would last an hour and a half 
or two hours. But his congregations were not made up 
of end-of-the-century churchgoers, who tire at a fifteen- 
minutes sermon, and who ask for a new pastor if the 


WAITMAN BARBE 


185 


sermon lasts over thirty minutes. The three little flocks 
of the Reverend Balak Mather’s keeping believed in de¬ 
voting the entire Sabbath—they never called it Sunday 
—to the worship of the Lord, and, as the preacher’s ser¬ 
mons grew in length, he grew in popularity. 

One day, about a year and a half after accepting 
the call to the three churches, the minister was sent for 
to go thirty miles or more into the mountains to conduct 
the funeral of an old man, who had once heard him 
preach in the village. Of course he went, for he never 
refused to go where he could render a service. 

On his return he stopped for the night at a little log 
house in the mountain, where cracks in the walls were 
not more conspicuous than the love and cheer about the 
hearthstone. 

One of the children was sawing away on a fiddle 
when the preacher entered the house, but immediately 
hid it when he saw the clerical coat of the stranger. The 
minister’s trained and sympathetic ear had caught the 
singularly rich and sweet notes of the instrument, and he 
at once asked the lad to get it for him. Taking it lov¬ 
ingly in his hand, he pulled the bow across the strings, 
held it close to his ear, touched another cord or two, 
looked at it critically, saw a dim and blurred inscription 
on it, and read: 

Antonius Stradivarius 
Cremonen, 1697. 

If Saul of Tarsus had appeared before him, he would 
not have been more surprised than he was to find there, 
in a hut in the mountain, an instrument bearing the name 
of the great Italian violin maker. 

“Where did you get it?” he inquired of the boy. 

“Don’t know; guess we’ve always had it.” 

Then the preacher-fiddler ran out to the stable where 
the boy’s father was feeding the horses—rushed out like 
an excited schoolboy—to ascertain, if he could, something 
about the wonderful instrument. 

“That fiddle?” said the mountaineer. “That’s the 
finest fiddle in this part of Virginy, I reckon. It’s purty 


186 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

old, but I guess it aint much worse for wear. Some feller 
has cut his name on it there, but I guess that don’t hurt it 
none. Where did I git it? Oh, I got that fiddle down 
in New Orleens when 1 was down there with Ben Butler’s 
crowd, but you mustn’t ask me how 1 got it, for I don’t 
want to tell a parson no lies. ” 

“But, my good fellow,” said the parson, “don’t you 
know that it is worth a big sum of money ? ’ ’ 

“How much’ll ye give me fur it?” 

‘ ‘ I haven’t enough money to buy it, I’m afraid, but 
I ’ll give you all I have in the world, which is about three 
hundred dollars.” 

He could probably have bought it for less than 
twenty-five, but he was too honest to try to drive an un¬ 
fair bargain, even for a Stradivarius. 

It was now the mountaineer’s turn to be amazed. 
He had never dreamed that any fiddle in the world 
could be worth half that much money. He thought the 
preacher had lost his senses. 

“You may take the fiddle,” he said, “but I ain’t 
agoin’ to skin you that way. You may know what hymn 
books and catechisms cost, but you’re off on catgut, par¬ 
son. I’ve played ’em all my life, and I never seen one 
that was wuth over twenty-five or thirty dollars. But 
if you want it, an ’ bein’s it’s you, an ’ you ’ll give me that 
there hoss of your ’n in the stable, why I reckon you may 
take the fiddle. I won’t take no three hundred dollars 
of any parson’s money for an old fiddle. It ain’t wuth 
it.” 

And so the bargain was made, the honest preacher 
telling the owner that if he ever sold the instrument for 
more than he gave for it, he would hunt him up and 
divide the profits with him. 

That night this servant of the Lord forgot to ask the 
mountaineer’s family to join with him in prayer, and' yet 
his heart was full of thankfulness and love for all things 
in heaven and on earth. Out among the trees, under the 
lonesome sky, he put the old Italian violin to his shoulder, 
and tears of love and joy filled his eyes as he stroked its 


WAITMAN BARBE 


187 


graceful neck as a lover would stroke the tresses of his 
fair bride. And the music that was made that night in the 
mountain! The sweetness and the richness and the com¬ 
pass of it! And the woe and the terror of it! For the 
player was a true maestro, and this perfect Stradivarius 
seemed to hold in its keeping the tender love and the 
burning passion and the implacable hate of the Italian 
race— that Italy which made poets and painters and 
sculptors and murderers. 

He understood how it was that when Paganini play¬ 
ed they said he was in league with the devil, exchanging 
smiles with a ghastly figure beside him, and why the 
multitudes followed him in wild frenzy through the 
streets of Genoa; for the two centuries between Antonio 
Stradivarius, the fiddle-maker of Cremona, and Balak 
Mather, the preacher-fiddler of the three churches, had 
crowded that old violin with memories of all the victories 
and failures, all the glory and all the shame of the human 
race, and the preacher-fiddler evoked all of these memo¬ 
ries and heard, with his own ears, that night, alone in the 
mountain, out under the everlasting stars, the story of 
the world’s tragedy ! 

At least it seemed to him so, for he was a true musi¬ 
cian to the tips of his long bony fingers. 

To those who love not the divine instrument, all 
this will appear absurd and strained, but it is written for 
those who know what it is to be overcome by the mys¬ 
terious and mighty power of an Ole Bull, a Sarasate, a 
Eugene Ysaye or a Cesar Thomson—an influence that 
has the power to intoxicate like wine, like the rare old 
wines which have in them the sunshine of heaven and 
the fine virtues of the soil. 

But this has nothing to do with our preacher, who 
was taken to the village the next day by the mountaineer. 
The Stradivarius stayed at the preacher’s boarding house, 
and the preacher’s horse went back to the mountain. 

Then came the fiercest battle of Balak Mather’s life, 
and the turning point. Unconsciously and unwillingly, 
he yielded, little by little, to the softening appeals of his 


188 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

musical nature, and his sermons to the three churches 
began to be more about love and less about the law—more 
religion and less theology. His congregation noticed it, 
and liked it—in spite of themselves. Some of the sisters 
said he must be in love, and they discussed it at their 
quilting parties. His actions, as well as his words, be¬ 
came more tender; he spent more time with the poor and 
the sick, and, wherever he went, he was a benediction. 

Many of his flock followed the lead of their shep¬ 
herd, and the gospel of love became the creed of the new 
propaganda at the three churches. 

But the upheaval was bound to comje sooner or later, 
and it was only strange that it had been delayed so long. 

One day the report was started that the preacher 
played the fiddle. By the time it had reached the other 
end of the village, which was less than an hour, it said 
that he had lost his faith in the teachings of the Bible; 
that he had his rooms full of Addles, and that he some¬ 
times kept step to his own playing. 

Many of his flock said they didn’t believe a word of 
it, but they passed the story on, and one of the good sis¬ 
ters thought it her Christian duty to ride over to the 
other two churches and tell the news. 

In the minds of these good men and women the fid¬ 
dle was inseparably associated with the disreputable 
dance hall and wicked actor-people, and was, in short, 
the devil’s own instrument. A member of the church 
found guilty of playing it would have been remonstrated 
with gently but firmly, and, if he persisted in his wicked 
ways, would have been expelled. The report, therefore, 
that their beloved pastor was a fiddle player shocked 
and scandalized them quite as much as if it had been 
said that he had been seen drunk in the public street. It 
was the sole topic of conversation, and, in the mouths of 
expert and long-experienced gossips, it took on many 
artistic embellishments. 

Some of his friends, however, refused to believe the 
story, and defended him with such faithfulness that in 
a few days there began to appear indications of a serious 


WAITMAN BARBE 


189 


schism in the three churches. 

One Saturday afternoon a committee of the elders 
waited upon the Rev. Balak Mather at his boarding house. 
They found him with his well-worn Bible open before 
him, at work upon the sermon for the morrow. The 
room was not filled with fiddles—there was not even one 
in sight—and the books about him were not such as a 
servant of the devil would revel in. Their courage be¬ 
gan to fail them, and they began to wish that they had 
shouldered the unpleasant duty on a committee of the 
sisters. After talking about the weather, the finances of 
the church, the crop prospects, the approaching county 
election, and the weather some more, until the situation 
became painfully embarrassing, the brother who had been 
chosen previously as spokesman plunged into the subject 
by saying: “Ah—Brother Mather, I suppose you have 
heard the scandalous reports which have been started 
about you by evil tongues—about your indulging in the 
unholy practice of fiddle-playing. Of course none of us 
believe it for a moment—” 

“Oh, of course, not for a moment!” put in the other 
members of the committee in chorus. 

‘‘ But we wanted to be able to deny it officially before 
it gets any further. Brother Jones,’’ he said, turning 
to another of the elders, “suppose you draw up an offi¬ 
cial denial of the whole infamous business, and we will 
all sign it right here.” 

Then the spokesman stroked his beard three times, 
and felt much relieved. 

Brother Jones got ready to write. 

“My good friends,” said the preacher, “I do not 
know what you have heard, but if it is that I play the 
violin, as well as pray and preach, and try to help the sick 
and poor, I must confess to my guilt. Up to within the 
past few weeks I yielded to it as to a besetting sin, and 
prayed against it every day of my life, but I no longer 
consider it such. Next to the service of my God and my 
fellowman, I love an old violin which I have yonder in 
that trunk.” 


190 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

And he took out the instrument and laid it before 
them. 

His boldness and earnestness comlpletely overwhelm¬ 
ed them, and they sat speechless. 

Then the preacher played as even he had never play¬ 
ed before—played as though pleading his own cause 
before God and man—the tones now wailing and crying 
in despair, now glorious with triumphant hope and vic¬ 
tory. The depths of his soul were broken up, and he 
wept, and the eyes of the elders were not dry. 

When they left, they said one to another, “ verily 
he hath a devil.’’ 

The rest is soon set down. 

Shortly after the committee of elders had presented 
to the three churches their formal report of what they 
had heard and seen, the preacher-fiddler put his Bible 
and his violin into his trunk—the latter accidentally 
getting uppermost this time—and after visiting every 
sheep of his three little flocks and saying to them he 
hoped they would, sometime, allow themselves to believe 
that music, even fiddle music, was not an unpardonable 
sin, he went away. 

One night, a little while ago, the writer of this sat 
with one of the old elders of the old church of the little 
old village west of the Blue Ridge in the Metropolitan 
Opera House in New York, and, while the audience came 
in, and the fine ladies in the boxes on either side discussed 
the dresses of the fine ladies in the boxes on the other side, 
he related to me the main facts of the story which I have 
repeated here. 

It was a great music-festival night, and the Boston 
Symphony Company was to give the first of a series of 
six concerts. The house was crowded, for it had been 
announced that with the company there was to appear 
Yriarte, a Belgian virtuoso, who had been turning the 
heads of the musical people on the other side of the 
waters—Paganini, they said, had come back to earth. Of 


WAITMAN BARBE 


191 


course Society, which always writes its name with a big 
S, was there, but there were others, also. There were 
pointed out to us in the audience the great composers 
Dvorak and DeKoven, Rafael Joseffy, the beautiful 
Emma Eames, Emma Juch, Lola Beeth, Melba, Jean de 
Reszke, and others. 

The concert began. The orchestra played something 
which I had forgotten, but which made nearly as much 
noise as Berlioz’s “Requiem Mass,” and nearly took the 
breath away from the people near the stage. 

Then there was a great flutter among the beautiful 
birds in the boxes, a craning of fair necks, a jabbering 
among the foreign-looking long-haired musical-appearing 
men near us, and, after what seemed an interminable wait, 
the Belgian came on with an old tobacco-colored fiddle 
in his hand. He had a face like the pictures of Saint- 
Saens, and he stood before the great audience like one 
who had a message to deliver of life or death. He held 
the violin and bow both under his left arm, and, before be¬ 
ginning to play, he reached out his right hand and held 
it there with his open palm down, as a preacher might 
have done in asking God’s benediction on the human 
race. Then the violin came out from under his arm and 
the bow r fell across it—and even the boxes were hushed. 

Then a voice such as had never been heard on sea or 
land filled the hall, and all that was worth living for or 
dying for, seemed to sanctify the place—it was the voice 
of a Stradivarius in. the hands of a maestro. 

When he had finished, and had again held out his 
long thin hand in benediction, the audience broke into a 
wild frenzy, such as the young virtuoso of Genoa is said 
to have produced in the Italian towns and villages three 
quarters of a century ago. People rushed onto the stage 
in the wildest excitement, among them being hundreds 
of ladies. They snatched the flowers from their bosoms 
and threw them at him, and the excitement was so great 
that it was totally impossible to go on with the concert 
that night. Only once before had anything approaching 
it been seen in this country on a similar occasion, and 


192 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

that was when New York went stark crazy over the won¬ 
derful Bulgarian pianist the winter before, when several 
women were badly hurt in the frenzied rush to touch the 
hem of his swallow-tail coat. 

The two men from w y est of the Blue Ridge were 
among the last to leave the hall, and, as they did so, the 
old Presbyterian elder said to the young man by his side: 

“That man was he whom we used to know at the 
three churches as the Rev. Balak Mather.” And then, 
after a long silence, “It is not a devil he hath, but some¬ 
thing divine.” 

AMONG ITS FLOCKS AND HERDS 

The human race went forth one day 
When all the world was young, 

In homely garb, its flocks and herds 
And savage beasts among. 

But ill content with simple ways, 

It longed to climb the height 

Where progress led and knowledge shed 
Its blazing, beck’ning light. 

The height was climbed, the human race 
Sits in the blazing light, 

And all that art or science knows 
Is done for its delight; 

But still sometimes how sad its heart— 

Too sad for poet’s words— 

It longs to be once more away 
Among its flocks and herds. 

ON THE POTOMAC 

Upon thy banks, old river, 

The feet of blood have trod, 

In dajcs when the heart of the valley 
Was crushed in the wine-press of God. 


WAITMAN BARBE 


193 


And still thy waters are wailing 
In wierd, unceasing cries— 

I hear them low in the moonlight, 

Out under the open skies. 

And ever and still forever, 

A dirge in a minor key 
They sing to him who listens 

As they carry their grief to the sea. 

But not alone in battle 

The wine-press of God is trod, 

And hearts that are broken with sorrow 
Do not all sleep under the sod; 

And so I pray thee, old river, 

Make moan for the living as well 
As for those whose sorrows are buried 
In graves where heroes fell. 

And this I pray thee, old river, 

(The birth-time of Christ is at hand) 
Sing peace and love and contentment 
To the hearts that dwell in the land. 

AT THE WOOD’S EDGE 
I have learned such lore in the woods today 
From a bird in cap and gown of gray 
That sang its lecture from a throat 
Full worthy of a bishop’s coat. 

And yet I have no gift of tongues 
To tell you what he said 
Or why I stood with leaping heart 
And with uncovered head. 

I have read such books in the field today— 
The scriptures of confessing May— 

And found the hidden score and tune 
Of all the arias of June. 


194 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


And yet I left within the field 
This ancient scripture-rune, 

And left the score of all the songs 
And all the psalms of June. 

I have heard such tales in the copse today 
From folk that gossip time away— 

For every coppice-folk has had, 

Its idylls and its Iliads. 

And yet I cannot cramp those tales 
Within my English lines 
The idylls and the Iliads 
They tell beneath the pines. 

I have seen such graves on the hill today, 
Where flowers fold their hands and pray 
For all their million millions dead 
Asleep within their narrow bed. 

And yet I could not if I would 
Tell how on spider thread 
They count their dewy beads and pray 
For all their million dead. 

I have felt such holy fears today 
Such sacred things did pass this way— 

For, Gracious Master, surely I 
Have felt thy blessed smile go by. 

And yet so feeble is my speech 
No one can hear me say 
What fears I had or what it was 
So holy passed this way. 


WAITMAN BARBE 


195 


STARS OF GOLD 

I 

With cheers for every star, we flung 
Our flag a year ago and sung 

The songs of marching men; 
And all the season through 
We proudly filled the flag with stars 
Until they crowded field and bars, 

And still we cheer’d—for then 
Our stars were all of blue. 

But now in silence do we raise 
Another flag too dear for praise, 

And every head we bow 
And for awhile withhold 
Our cheers for banners filled with blue: 
Another color shineth through 

The field and bars—for now 
These stars have turned to gold. 

The night brings out the stars we say: 
And now behold a Milky Way 

The night of war hath blazed 
Across the heaven’s gate— 

A belt of glory made of names 
That shine forever steady flames, 
Forever to be praised, 

Above our Mountain State. 

Dirge 

How the place has changed today 
Since the hour they went away! 
Changed the hopes of those they left, 
Hopes of those that loved them best! 
Broken is the golden bowl, 

Broken too the mother-soul 
Who despite her pride and trust 
Waileth ever, “Dust to dust!” 


196 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


II 

We call the roll, and every name 
Says Here! from out the cloudless flame 
Where Glory’s banner waves 
In folds that never fade. 

Call out the roll, so long and fair, 

It sounds like distant words of prayer 
Above their sacred graves 
"Where’er their bones are laid. 

Call out the roll: each name a star, 
Each star a poem nobler far 

Than aught in my poor powers; 
And if unknown there be 
Asleep in some far distant place 
A lad whose name we cannot trace— 
Some unknown lad of ours— 

0 lad, this line’s for thee! 

This flag in some far future day 
With reverent hands we’ll lay away, 

But still these stars shall beam 
Above our campus old 
And in our hearts for evermore 
Until upon some radiant shore 

All stars of blue shall gleam 
Beside them, turned to gold. 

Dirge 

How the campus lacks their feet, 

For we nevermore shall meet 
Them on the Circle, in the hall, 

Greet them never more at nil; 

Woodburn waits for them to come. 
Woodburn waits, her voice is dumb. 

How the place is changed today 
Since the hour they went away! 


WAITMAN BARBE 


197 


III 

These stars are all of equal size, 

Made so by equal sacrifice: 

No less or greater light 
In the Brotherhood of Death. 

The deeds by which they won the star 
Recorded were by a Registrar 
Across the sky of night 
While angels held their breath. 

Nor does their star at all depend 
Upon the place that saw the end 
Of all they had to give, 

Of all they had to pay— 

On fields of France, in cantonment, 

In hospital, where’er was spent 

(That honor still might live) 

Their last, their last great day. 

Some wrnlked with us these college ways 
For years and gained the scholar’s praise; 
Some tarried but a space 
Until their finals came; 

But who shall say when patriots fall 
That place is not alike for all 
In God’s eternal grace 
And time’s eternal fame? 

Dirge 

How the hills shall miss their voice 
When our lusty men rejoice 
Singing songs of work or play 
In the new and better day! 

How the State shall miss them when 
She shall need the strength of men! 

How the heart of love shall wait 
Long, so long, at the open gate! 


198 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


IV 

A banner Blue and Bold, I ween, 

Is dropped by spirit-hands unseen 
Tonight upon the mound 
Where each his rest doth keep; 
Above each grave that spirit bends 
And whispers, Alma Mater sends 
Me here to bless the ground 
Where son of hers doth sleep! 

The grass shall grow and roses blow, 
And time assuage the grief we know, 
But each returning year 

When March comes around anew 
That spirit shall its visit keep 
Above each grave to watch and weep 
And plant the banner there, 

And flag of Gold and Blue. 

The grass shall fail, the rose shall fall, 
The ancient wind shall o’er them call 
In Winters far away 
When we shall be forgot, 

But Alma Mater still shall go 
In spirits where her sons lie low, 

Till she herself decay 
And all that is is not 

Paean 

How the world has leapt to light 
Into day from out the night! 

How the world, redeemed anew, 

Sees at last its dreams come true 
Dreams of poets and of seers, 

Dreayned through immemorial years! 
How the Nations rise and sing 
Praise to Jehovah, King, 

Him Who rideth on the storm, 

Who upholdeth with His arm! 

God of earth and sky and sea, 

These our men we leave with thee! 


VIRGINIA LUCAS 


V irginia Lucas, the daughter of Lena Tucker Brooke 
and Daniel Bedinger Lucas, was born at Rion 
Hall, Jefferson County, West Virginia. She re¬ 
ceived her education in schools in Charles Town, at the 
Mary Baldwin Seminary, Staunton, Virginia, and at the 
Art Students * League, New York. 

Miss Lucas is the author of “The Captain,” a story; 
“Wild Flowers” (privately circulated), and a few oc¬ 
casional poems. She is a writer of considerable charm 
and shows in her verse the same love of nature that dis¬ 
tinguished the work of her aunt, Virginia Bedinger 
Lucas, whose fancy could recall, it is said, the exact 
shades of coloring of almost every wild dower of the 
Shenandoah Valley. 

The work of Miss Lucas during the World War in 
connection with the Red Cross and with the drives for 
various purposes was very efficient, and was the occasion 
of much favorable comment. She is also one of the most 
active club women of Jefferson County. She lives with 
her mother at her beautiful country home, Rion Hall, 
where she leads a very busy and happy life, for, as she 
herself says, she is “interested in pretty much every¬ 
thing.” 

RUE-ANEMONE 

Love was so sweet, that brought thee forth— 

I could not do thee wrong, my child, 

That art so fair and frail and wild, 

Whom some esteem of little worth. 

Red-stemmed, and delicate: I draw 
Too heavily thy fragile growth; 

To touch thy leaves the air is loath— 

Those shy, curled leaves, arranged by law. 

199 


200 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


The wind doth not disturb thee. Knave! 
That with irreverence would tread 
Those thought-like petals, skyward spread, 
Looking to heaven, small and brave. 

That faintly fragrant, lovely bloom, 
Rose-colored, and its sisters white— 

Are they the offspring of the light, 
Earth-met, after long years of gloom? 

White wings, a-weary grown: they droop: 
They are inscrutable, strange dust, 
Returning to its home—one gust 
Of storm would shatter the whole troop. 

I love them! Did the lilies grow 
In Galilee, around His feet, 

With trust and tenderness, more meet 
Than these, today begotten, show? 

One flower, from out its leafy nest 
I lift; I bear thee hence, to dwell 
For thy brief day with me, to tell 
My human heart of Beauty’s test. 

I draw thee, speak of thee; no wrong 

Can e’er befall thee, by God wrought: 
Thou canst but purify my thought, 
Returning to God’s breast, ere long. 

Art thou reluctant, little one? 

Ah, no! in those meek, upturned eyes, 

I read a joyous sacrifice— 

God praised, man served, destiny won! 

Exquisite bloom! My tears are now 
Thy recompense—and God adored, 

For thy rare beauty, and implored 
For grace, to live and love, as thou. 



VIRGINIA LUCAS 


201 


COLUMBINE 

There, clinging for thy life—thon little one? 
And yet no fear is in thy slender grace: 

Thou bloomest in the shelter of the rock, 
Dreading nor tempest shock, 

Nor garish light of sun, 

Secure, in thine uplifted resting place. 

The ferns droop near thee, cool and delicate, 
With luxury of fine, unfolding frond. 

The veined vines ascend thy cliff—they cling, 
Like bird, with unfledged wing, 

Having the faith to wait, 

Till they shall mount up to the sky beyond. 

I touch thee ? Not for any price! So rare, 
Dropped like a jewel, on the Summer’s hem, 
Scarlet and gold; of royal color thou, 

Pit for her queenly brow, 

Whose wondrous diadem 
Of grace has lifted her beyond compare. 

I would not stand between thee and the light, 
Who art so free and fairylike and fair, 

Too fine for mortal finger to deface— 

Born to thy lofty place 
On rocky height, 

Shaking thy gold locks on the reverent air. 


GEORGE M. FORD 



G eorge M. Ford was born in Kasson, Barbour County, 
West Virginia. He was educated in the rural 
schools, at Fairmont State Normal and at West 
Virginia University from which he received the degree 
of A. B. in 1892, and the degree of LL. B. in 1896. Dur¬ 
ing his college days he gave promise of a successful liter¬ 
ary career, but has since devoted his time to other work 
than writing. 

Since his graduation, he has been engaged in educa¬ 
tional work most of the time, and is regarded as an ex¬ 
ceptionally efficient school man. He has served as head 
of the department of economics of Concord Normal 
School; as principal of the Terra Alta schools, the Graf¬ 
ton High School and Concord State Normal School; 
and as superintendent of Brown’s Creek School District, 
McDowell County, the Dunbar schools; and of the Blue- 
field schools, including the rural schools of Beaver Pond 
District, Mercer County. 

In 1897, Captain Ford married Miss Anna L. Linn 
of Keyser, West Virginia. 

Captain Ford comes from a family that has had an 
active part in every war in which our country has en¬ 
gaged, including the French and Indian War. His 
father, Rev. F. G. W. Ford, served with distinction in 
defense of the Union in the Civil War. The beginning 
of Captain Ford’s career as a military man was on May 
12, 1911, when he received a commission as captain in 
the Second Infantry, West Virginia National Guard. 
“On December 1, 1914, he received a commission as 
major in the Adjutant General’s Department, but re¬ 
signed June 19, 1916 to accept a captaincy in the Second 
Infantry, West Virginia National Guard, answering the 
call of the President for Mexico border service. He was 
mustered out of the service March 24, 1917 and April 
3, 1917, he answered the call of the President for World 


202 


GEORGE M. FORD 


203 


War service. The designation of his regiment was 
changed to the One Hundred and Fiftieth U. S. Infantry 
and attached to the Thirty-eighth Division. He served 
six months over-seas during which time he was trans¬ 
ferred to the command of Co. B, Three Hundred and 
Fifty-eighth Infantry, Ninetieth Division and reported 
to his command on the front line at Stenay. He accom¬ 
panied this division to Berncastle, on the Moselle, as a 
part of the Army of Occupation, and was later transfer¬ 
red to the Thirty-seventh Division and assigned to the 
comimand of Company M, One Hundred and Forty-fifth 
Infantry, then under orders to embark for home. He 
was honorably discharged from the United States Army 
on the 25th day of April, 1919.” 

Captain Ford was elected State Superintendent of 
Free Schools, on the Republican ticket, in November, 
1920, and entered upon the duties of his office the fol¬ 
lowing March. During his administration West Vir¬ 
ginia schools have greatly increased in efficiency. He 
served as President of the West Virginia State Educa¬ 
tion Association during the year 1921-22. 

THE MARINER’S LOVE 
“The continuous roar 
Of the surf on the shore, 

As it dashes its wild billows high, 

Makes sweet music to me, 

Born and bred by the sea, 

Where the sea gull and storm petrels fly. 

And if ever should I, 

From the sea forced to fly, 

Settle down in some far distant land; 

Where the surf billow’s roar 
Came to me never more, 

Or salt breeze my brow gently fanned; 

Then I hope that e’er long 
(Though the hope may be wrong), 

That the God to whom we seaufen pray, 


204 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Will look down from the sky 
And permit me to die,” 

Said a mariner bold from the bay. 

Years had passed since the time 

When the man in his prime 

Had spoken these brave words to me; 

And that mariner bold 
Had grown gray and old, 

And had left his old home by the sea. 

For when storm witches rave 
O’er the foam covered wave, 

Naught but strength can their fury withstand; 
And when muscle and brawn 
Are with fleeting years gone 
An old man is far better on land. 

In a far inland town, 

O’er which grim mountains frown, 

On his death-bed our mariner lay; 

Each laboring sigh 

And his slow glazing eye 

Told his life sands were ebbing away. 

Spoke the mariner low: 

“My lads, will you go 
And carry me back to the sea, 

And dig me a grave 

Where the incoming wave 

Will heap the salt sea-weed o’er me?” 

And now there’s a mound, 

Where the murmuring sound 

Of the breakers that play on the shore, 

Make sweet music to him 

Who was once wont to stem 

E’en their wildest weird warring of yore. 


GEORGE M. FORD 


205 


* * * # 

/Years have passed since that time; 

I have long passed my prime; 

And I stand old and as feeble as he, 
Before me the grave, 

And beyond it the wave 

That its occupant once loved to see. 

What’s the moral? Well, you, 

Who have loved and are true, 

Will scarce ask the moral of me. 

Here a hero lies dead, 

And over his head 

Croons the voice of his life’s love, the sea. 


HOWARD LLEWELLYN SWISHER 


H oward Llewellyn Swisher, son of David W. and 
Mary Katherine (Bonnifield) Swisher, was born in 
Hampshire County, West Virginia, September 1, 
1870. After attending the public school of that county, he 
entered Fairmont State Normal School where he was 
graduated in 1892. He then engaged in teaching in 
California for two years. Upon his return to his native 
State, he entered West Virginia University where he was 
graduated in 1897 with an A. B. degree. 

Since his graduation, Mr. Swisher has been engaged 
in a number of important business enterprises in Mor¬ 
gantown. For a time, he conducted the Acme Book 
Store and, in 1898, he organized the Acme Publishing 
Company of which he was president for a number of 
years. In 1918, he organized and became general man¬ 
ager of the Morgantown Building Association. Mr. 
Swisher was married in 1898 to Miss Mary Deering of 
Morgantown. 

He is the author of “Briar Blossoms,” a book of 
verse, stories, and sketches, and the ‘ ‘ Book of Harangues 
by the Chief of the Tribe of Ghourki.” 


IN WEST VIRGINIA 
In West Virginia skies are blue, 

The hills are green and hearts are true; 

A joyous welcome waiteth you, 

In West Virginia. 

In West Virginia skies are bright, 

The twinkling stars make glad the night; 
And noble hearts uphold the right, 

In West Virginia. 

In West Virginia, happy beams 
The sun that kisses crystal streams, 
Enduring love is what it seemfe, 

In West Virginia. 

206 


HOWARD LLEWELLYN SWISHER 207 

In West Virginia there is rest 

For tempest-tossed and sore distressed, 

Here loving hearts are ever blest, 

In West Virginia. 

In West Virginia man is free; 

He dwells beneath his own roof-tree; 

Oh come, my love, and dwell with me, 

In West Virginia. 

THE SPRING ’NEATH THE OLD GUM TREE 
There’s many a spot on the old home place, 

That I’m wishing and longing to see, 

But the dearest of all is the meadow lot 

And the spring ’neath the old gum tree. 

At the harvest noon when the wheat in the fields 
Waved a billowy, golden sea, 

Round the clover heads the bumble bees croon 
By the spring ’neath the old gum tree. 

Oh! the shade was sweet and the grass was green, 
While merry harvesters we, 

Spent a happy noon hour when we used to meet 
Near the spring ’neath the old gum tree. 

Then many a jest went ’round the group, 

Our hearts were happy and free. 

There sang we the songs that we loved best 
By the spring ’neath the old gum tree. 

The spring bubbled up with a laugh on its lips, 

And danced away to the sea; 

While again and again we filled the cup 

From the spring ’neath the old gurh tree. 

But those days are fled in the din of life, 

And never more shall I be, 

With the harvesters of then, who now are dead, 

By the spring ’neath the old gum tree. 

So there’s many a spot on the old home place 
That I’m wishing and longing to see, 

But the dearest of all is the meadow lot 

And the spring ’neath the old gum tree. 


MARSHALL S. CORNWELL 


M arshall S. Cornwell was born October 18,1871, in 
Hampshire County, West Virginia. His early life 
was spent on a farm. He was educated in the 
public schools of his county, and though it was not his 
good fortune to have the advantages of a college educa¬ 
tion, his love for reading, his quick mind, and his keen 
power of observation made him one of the best informed 
men in West Virginia. 

After reaching manhood, he left the farm and engag¬ 
ed in newspaper work, in which he was quite successful 
until compelled to abandon it because of ill health. He 
was the editor of The Grant County Press for two years 
and of The Inter-Mountain for three years. 

He was a man of unusually bright and cheerful 
disposition, and w T on warm friends wherever he went. 
The vein of seriousness and sadness that runs through 
most of his poems may be accounted for by the fact that 
many of them were written while he was in quest of 
health on the eastern coast of Florida, and on the banks 
of the Rio Grande. 

While in El Paso, Texas, he realized that his battle 
for health and life was a losing one, and he returned to 
his old home in Hampshire, where on May 26, 1898, sur¬ 
rounded by those dearest to him, he passed out of life to 
find the perfect peace for which he had wished in his 
“Dream of Rest.” 

Mr. Cornwell’s poems appeared in newspapers and 
other publications, and occasioned many expressions of 
appreciation, among them a letter of commendation from 
James Whitcomb Riley. After his death, his brothers, 
Messrs. John J. and William Cornwell, collected his 
poems and published them in a volume, entitled “Wheat 
and Chaff.” 


208 


MARSHALL S. CORNWELL 


209 


SOME DAY 

Some day, through the mists of the earthly night, 
We shall catch the gleam of the harbor light, 

That shines forever on the far off shore, 

Where dwell the loved who have gone before; 

We shall anchor safe from our stormy way, 

In that haven of rest, some day, some day. 

Some day our sorrows will all be o’er, 

And we’ll rest from trouble forevermore; 

When over the river’s rolling tide, 

We shall “strike glad hands” on the other side; 

In the City celestial, at last, we may 
Rest in peace, some day, some day. 

Some day we’ll close these weary eyes, 

That shall look no more on earthly skies, 

And over the heart, that has ceased to beat, 

Kind hands will place fresh flowers sweet; 

But my soul shall hear the celestial lay, 

Sweet paeans of praise, some day. 

SUCCESS 

Two ships sail over the harbor bar 

With the flush of the morning breeze, 

And both are bound for a haven far 
O’er the shimmering summer seas. 

With sails all set, fair wind and tide, 

They steer for the open main; 

But little they reck of the billows wide 
E’er they anchor safe again. 

There is one perchance, e’er the summer is done 
That reaches the port afar, 

She hears the sound of the welcoming gun 
As she crosses the harbor bar. 


210 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


The haven she reaches, success, ’tis said 
Is the end of a perilous trip, 

Perchance e’en the bravest and best are dead 
Who sailed in the fortunate ship. 

The other bereft of shroud and sail, 

At the mercy of wind and tide, 

Is swept by the might of the pitiless gale 
’Neath the billows dark and wide. 

But ’tis only the one in the harbor there 
That receiveth the meed of praise; 

The other sailed when the morn was fair 
And was lost in the stormy ways. 

And so to the men who have won renown 
In the weary battle of life, 

There cometh at last the victor’s crown; 

Not to him who fell in the strife. 

For the world recks not of those who fail, 

Nor cares what their trials are. 

Only praises the ship that "with swelling sail 
Comes in o’er the harbor bar. 


FRANCES MOORE BLAND 


F rances Moore Bland was born in the historic town 
of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, a daughter of 
Judge C. P. T. Moore and Urilla Kline Moore. 
She inherited literary talent from both parents. At an 
early age she removed with her family to River View, a 
large country estate in the Ohio Valley, ten miles south 
of the county-seat. Here her education was begun under 
private tutors and later continued at Mount De Chantal, 
near Wheeling, where she completed a four years ’ course 
at this old institution of learning. River View, with 
its serenity and its inspiring outlook, was an ideal spot 
to foster inborn tendencies of the child, whose heart 
was responsive to every call to nature and to the placid 
beauty of the scenery of hill and dale surrounding her 
rural home. 

While still very young, she commenced to write 
short stories and bits of verse, many of which were pub¬ 
lished in the local papers at Gallipolis, Ohio, and Point 
Pleasant, West Virginia. These early efforts elicited 
quite favorable comment from competent judges. 

In 1897, Miss Moore was united in marriage to 
Robert L. Bland, a young attorney of Weston, West Vir¬ 
ginia. To this union four children have been born, a 
daughter and three sons. 

In 1900, Mrs. Bland published a small volume of 
poems, “Twilight Reveries.” She now has in contem¬ 
plation the publication of a book of short stories at an 
early date. 

Mrs. Bland is a member of the St. Paul’s Episcopal 
Church, Weston, and is active in the affairs of the 
Daughters of the American Revolution, the Woman’s 
Club and the Wednesday Club of Weston. 


211 


212 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

MOTHER’S EYES 

Like the soft, melting rays of the starlight, 
Beaming brightly afar in the skies, 

Shines ever thro’ memory’s fond magic 
The light of my Mother’s dark eyes. 

Dear eyes with their depths of affection, 

Soft eyes with their nnshed tears, 

Hope borrowed of sorrow’s dejection, 

Shines in them thro’ all the long years, 

Illumed with the light of joys passing 
Or with retrospect’s tender recall— 

The glow of their beautiful ardor 

Sheds a dream of repose over all, 

And I read in their depth’s a sweet story 
Of a girlhood so bright and so glad, 

In the dew-laden flush of life’s morning 
Ere in shadows the day dawn was clad. 

And the noontide of life’s broad expansion 
Is mirrored with lights and with shade, 
But the evening’s deep calm sheds a beacon, 
And the brightness to twilight must fade. 

So daily I learn a sweet lesson, 

Not taught by the earth or the skies, 

But a lesson of faith, hope, and duty 

Beaming mild from my Mother’s soft eyes. 
*##*#**# 

Ah! beautiful eyes with the glimmer 

Of faith’s fondest trust beaming bright, 
Methinks that the watchlight of angels 
Must lessen to gloom in your sight. 

The earth has her circlet of diamonds, 

And gemmied is the blue of the skies, 

But the quenchless fire of devotion 

Burns only in Mother’s loved eyes. 


ANNA R. HENDERSON 


A nna R. Henderson (Mrs. J. B. Henderson) is a 
native of South Carolina, but was reared in Flori¬ 
da. She attended school in Philadelphia, and after¬ 
wards spent some time near Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Mrs. 
Henderson has been living in Williamstown, West Vir¬ 
ginia, for a number of years, and considers herself a 
real West Virginian. 

She has contributed frequently to The Ladies’ Home 
Journal, The Woman’s Home Companion and other 
standard magazines, but in recent years lack of time has 
prevented her regularly engaging in literary work. Some 
of her best work consists of verse and stories for young 
people which appeared in Wide Awake, Our Youth, Lit¬ 
tle Men and Women, and other popular juvenile maga¬ 
zines. 

In 1900, Mrs. Henderson published a volume of 
verse, entitled “Life and Song,” which contains a num¬ 
ber of poems which show T that she underestimates her 
talent as a writer when she calls herself “A Gleaner in 
the Field of Song.” She does not consider the charming 
verse in this volume representative of her best work, 
which is of later date, and which consists of “poems of 
length, narrations of human lives and vicissitudes.” 
Some of these poems w^ere written as contributions to 
programs given by the Woman’s Club of Parkersburg, 
of which she is a prominent member. It is hoped that 
Mrs. Henderson may in the future have more time to 
devote to writing, and that she may publish a second 
volume of her verse. 


FANCIES 

I built a bridge of fancies, 
When I was young and gay, 

Of smiles and songs and dances, 


213 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

And flowerets of the May, 

With sparkling dewdrops gleaming, 
With every beauty rife; 

It seemied to my fond dreaming, 

To span the stream of life. 

I wove a web of fancies, 

When youth and joy were mine, 

The roses of romances, 

Made gay the fair design. 

I sang a song of pleasure, 

At what I deemed would be 
The riches of the measure 
The fates would All for me. 

My glittering bridge of fancies, 

Went down beneath a storm; 

The web of fair romances 
Has never decked my form. 

But song shall still aspire, 

To duty, love and truth, 

And bear my spirit higher 

Than all the dreams of youth. 

RELIC DAY 

Relics of the long ago, 

How we gathered them together, 
Searching attics dim and low, 

In the stormy, eerie weather. 

Relics of the early years, 

Of the hardy pioneers; 

Of the long ago. 

Reel that never whirls and clacks, 

Spinning wheels that never hum, 

Hackles for the broken flax, 

Clocks whose works are long since dumb. 
Woolen hose and buckskin slippers, 
Longnecked gourds they used as dippers, 

In the long ago. 


ANNA R. HENDERSON 


215 


Snuff-box, pipe and powderhorn, 

Dogskin shot-pouch, flintlock rusty; 
Mortar made from pounding corn, 
Hunting shirt, moth-eaten, musty, 
Demijohn for home-made whiskey, 

Some old pioneers got frisky 
In the long ago. 

Old andtirons that lustre lack, 

Pewter plates all dull and battered; 
Kettles huge and gridirons black, 

Big stone pitcher, glassware shattered. 
Odd blue dishes, English make, 

Board for baking johnny cake; 

Good, so long ago. 

Woolen coverlids so gay, 

Knitting yarn and needles rusty; 

Chests where homespun linen lay, 

Candle moulds and snuffers dusty, 
Patchwork quilts that made a show, 

In the long ago. 

Letters yellow, dim with age, 

Words of grave advice and duty, 

Prim precision marks each page, 

Knew they romance, loved they beauty? 
Folded with a poem rare 
Lo, a tress of shining hair,— 

Oh, the long ago. 

Quilted skirts and gowns of crepe, 

Samplers worked with tints so mellow; 
Baby caps of quaintest shape, 

Leghorn bonnet old and yellow, 

Oh, they look so mielancholy, 

Did they shadow faces jolly, 

In the long ago? 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Hoard them up, though useless, old, 

Talk of all those hardships often, 

Let their memories be as gold; 

They who toiled our lot to soften, 
Cherish, aye, through all the years, 
Memories of the pioneers, 

Of the long ago. 

THE FIELD OF SONG 

Fair, fair, ’neatli ever radiant skies, 
Watched o’er by stars with tender eyes, 
Ripened by sunlight, fed by rain; 

Rarest of all earth’s fields of grain; 
Fanned by the breeze of minstrelsy, 

It lies—the field of Poesy. 

It smiles, it waves through countless hours, 
Shut in by hedge of fragrant flowers, 
Above it sounds the wild bird’s note, 
While o’er it sweetest breezes float: 

And reapers good and glad and strong, 
Go toiling in the field of Song. 

But I, my task is not to wield 
A scythe in such a heavenly field; 

From stubbly hillsides all the day, 

I clear the briars and stones away. 

But when the pensive twilight falls, 

I wander where my fancy calls, 

And glean, where others passed along; 

As reapers in the field of Song. 

I have no blade to cut such wheat; 

I tread with slow and clumsy feet. 

And yet, content and glad am I 
With scattered grains that shining lie, 

I walk the ground which seems to me 
The Eden land of earth to be. 

I linger late, I tarry long; 

A gleaner in the field of Song. 


ANNA R. HENDERSON 


217 


PAYING THEIR WAY 

A wonderful thing is a baby, 

A king in the realm of hearts; 

The household judge and jury, 

And master of countless arts. 

But the best thing about a baby, 

You may m)ark it any day 

Is its power that has no rival, 

To fairly pay its way. 

Cheeks that are softer than rose leaves, 

Hands that are swifter than birds; 

Hair that is silken and sunny, 

Coos that are sweeter than words. 

Smiles do they bring to the saddest, 
Sunshine and music are they; 

Blessing and love do they carry, 

To always pay their way. 

You may talk of the works of artists 

Of the treasures that wealth can buy, 

Of fashion, and books, and jewels, 

With their power to satisfy; 

A better wealth has the household, 

That is gladdened every day 

By a laughing, rollicking baby, 

That always pays its way. 

But oh, the interruptions, 

And the work that a baby will make; 

And oh, the self denials, 

And the time that a baby can take. 

A kiss makes up for the trouble, 

A smile cures all the bother; 

There was never a baby that went to bed, 
The least in debt to its mother. 


218 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


A rest of petting when tired 

A comfort when hearts are sad; 
A perfect, flawless possession, 

When everything else seems had. 
And so we cuddle and kiss them, 
And love them all the day; 

And are glad that the blessed babies 
Will always pay their way. 


PHILANDER CHASE JOHNSON 


P hilander Chase Johnson, son of Sylvanus E. and 
Martha A. Johnson, was born in Wheeling, West 
Virginia, February 6,1866. He makes an interesting 
comment in regard to Christian and family names in 
Everybody's for May, 1920: ‘‘A bookish and religiously 
inclined ancestry is evidenced by Christian names. I dis¬ 
covered in a family Bible seen for the first time not long 
ago: ‘Palamon,’ ‘Jason,’ ‘Sylvanus,’ ‘Basilial,’ familiar¬ 
ized as ‘Uncle Baz,’ ‘Jesse,’ ‘Shuah,’ and others of the 
kind. I regarded the name of ‘Philander’ as a sort of 
hereditary eccentricity. The old Bible revealed to me that 
my name is not really ‘ Johnson. ’ It is ‘ Janson. ’ The pa¬ 
ternal great-grandfather’s name was ‘Diederich Janson.’ 
I have my respectful suspicions that he was an honest 
Dutch peasant who wore wooden shoes and used a tack- 
hammer instead of a button-hook.” 

As a child Mr. Johnson loved to hear his mother sing. 
He says; “My love of rhythm was strong and the poems 
that floated through the newspapers were invariably read 
aloud to me in order that more important business might 
proceed. Sometimes the marriage licenses and the mor¬ 
tality lists had to be read for at least a few lines, in order 
to prove that they were only optical illusions.” 

Mr. Johnson inherited his inclination for literary 
work from his father, who was “police reporter, city 
editor, chief and, if need were, foreman of the composing 
room of the leading newspaper of the town. ’ ’ He has 
been engaged in newspaper work for a number of years, 
having conducted humorous and literary departments 
in The Merchant Traveler, Chicago, and the Critic, Capi¬ 
tal, and Post, Washington. At present, he is editorial 
writer and dramatic critic of The Washington Star, and 
for over thirty years, he has written for the Star daily 
contributions of verse and dialogue under the caption 


219 


220 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

of Shooting Stars. 

Of his long residence in Washington, he says: “I 
do not quite understand how I became for so long a fix¬ 
ture in Washington. I intended to remain on a per¬ 
sonal errand only for a week or so. The fascination of 
the place, which so many feel, held me from day to day, 
then from year to year, until secure association came to 
mean more than chanceful opportunity.” 

Mr. Johnson is the author of two well known songs: 
one, “Old Fashioned Flowers,” and the other, “Some¬ 
where in France Is the Lily,” which was one of the most 
popular songs of the recent World War. 

He says: ‘ ‘ There is an interest in contributing some¬ 
thing, however slight, to the talk of the time.I 

think that two widely circulated phrases were first used 
by me; both of them in conversation not in print. I 
never saw either of them until after I had used them; 
one the rather unfeeling invitation to end a hard luck 
story; ‘Cheer up! The worst is yet to come’ and the 
other, the admonition, ‘Don’t throw a monkey-wrench 
into the machinery.’ ” 

Mr. Johnson has been twice married. His first wife 
was Louise Covert and his second wife was Mrs. Mary 
A. Hagman, daughter of the late Brigadier General 
Daniel W. Adams, C. S. A. 

He is the author of “Sayings of Uncle Eben,” “Sen¬ 
ator Sorghum’s Primer of Politics,” and “Now-a-Day 
Poems.” 


ONCE IN A WHILE 

Once in a while, like the sun that streams 

Through the breaking clouds on a day of showers, 
The light of happiness gaily gleams 

On this wistful wearisome world of ours. 

And the sands of the hour-glass turn to gold, 

And the melodies faint and far unfold, 

And they lightly clink and our thoughts beguile 
With mystical music—once in a while. 



PHILANDER CHASE JOHNSON 


221 


Once in a while, through the battling crowd, 

The face of an honest friend will pass 
Or a voice will silence the tumult loud— 

The tender voice of a loving lass. 

But the throng grows fierce and the din grows high 
As hope and hatred renew the cry, 

And a frown effaces the careless smile 
That comes to cheer us—once in a while. 

Once in a -while comes the day that’s “best,” 

After days of waiting through “worse” and “bad;” 
The day that is radiant and sweet with rest, 

The day that we long for when life is sad. 

How well ’twould be if the tide of years 

Could be, somehow, turned from the flood of tears; 

If the hours of darkness and doubt v/ere drained 
And only the “ Once-in-a-while’s” remained! 

A HUMBLE SERMON 

Dar nebber wa’nt no one who couldn’t fin’ out 
Sumpin’ clus to his home to git busy about. 

It may be de work doesn’ pay as it should, 

But it’s better dan loafin’ an’ bein’ no good. 

So I mixes de whitewash or pushes de spade 
’Thout talkin’ too much ’bout de money dat’s paid. 
Don’ was’e all yoh time countin’ up de reward, 

Jes’ ten’ to yoh bus’ness an’ trus’ in de Lord. 

When Moses, de prophet, led Israel’s band, 

He didn’t start axin’ de price of de land 
He was leadin’ ’em to. Ef dey followed de light 
He knowed dat de future wah boun’ to come right. 

De onlies’ way to succeed is to staht 
A-goin’ yoh bes’ wid yoh han’s an’ yoh heart. 

So don’ git contrairy an’ sing off de chord, 

Jes’ ten’ to yoh bus’ness an’ trus’ in de Lord. 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


THE GOD OP PROGRESS 

‘'Behold the God of Progress!” 

The trumpet of conquest brays, 

And the banners shine o’er the battle line, 
And the "wondering nations gaze. 

“Behold the god who triumphs” 

In tuihult and smoke and flame! 

The god up-raised to be feared and praised 
And called by a sacred name. 

His creed is the creed of liars, 

And wherever he sets a shrine, 

The helpless kneel ’neath a yoke of steel, 
While his ministers jest and dine; 

Their vestments of tyrant purple 
Are washed with the tears of need; 

They spurn the poor from the temple door 
And cringe at the call of Greed. 

Look on the scenes of sorrow! 

The fires of conquest show 

The Afric slave, the red man’s grave, 

And our own good sons laid low; 

The Orient’s yellow giant 

Lies drugged at the gates of Doom 

Where souls were paid in the course of trade 
As the price of a poppy bloom. 

The simple faith of the savage 
Is changed to a poisoned hate; 

The wise and strong with a silken thong 
Lie bound in the halls of State; 

The truths which our fathers gave us 
Are mouthed till we yield and trust; 

They are warped anew till they seem to do 
The bidding of shame and lust. 


PHILANDER CHASE JOHNSON 


223 


Who is this ‘'God of Progress'’ 

Who maddens the babbling throng. 

And slakes his pride in a crimson tide 
While we bellow a battle song; 

Whose hymns are the cries of children—- 
Of children who seek the dead; 

Whose voice is the roar from the cannon’s bore 
And whose heart is a heart of lead? 

Like the faith of the tribes who journeyed 
To freedom, from Egypt’s king, 

Our faith is slight and we shun the light 
And we worship a Gilded Thing: 

A thing to be smote and shattered 
While the knaves and the fools atone 
And forget their arts and incline their hearts 
To the words that were writ in stone. 

How long, ‘‘0 God of Progress,’' 

Will you mask in a pleasant phrase 
And bid men seek to destrov the weak 
And to surfeit the proud with praise! 

How long shall we grope and wander, 

And gibber and dance and laugh, 

And forget the Law as we bend in awe 
To our idol—the Golden Calf! 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


F rancis Richard Stockton, better known as Frank R. 
Stockton, was born in Philadelphia in 1834. On 
his mother's side, he was of English, French, and 
Irish ancestry; on his father’s side, he was of pure Eng¬ 
lish stock. His father was widely known as a writer on 
religious subjects. 

He was educated in the public schools of Philadel¬ 
phia, where he was grad¬ 
uated from the Central 
High School in his eight¬ 
eenth year. He received 
a prize while in high 
school for a story that 
appeared in The Boys’ 
and Girls’ Journal. 

As he showed de¬ 
cided artistic genius, he 
look up the work of steel 
(‘ligraving in which he 
was quite successful. 
While engaged in this 
work, however, he be¬ 
came interested in the 
writing of short stories, 
and within a few years 
he had won sufficient 
recognition as a writer to cause him to decide to make 
literature his profession. He secured a position as as¬ 
sistant to Mary Mapes Dodge, editor of the juvenile de¬ 
partment of Hearth and Home, and later served on the 
staff of The Century, and St. Nicholas , to the latter of 
which, he remained a constant contributor for many 
years after giving up his editorial work in 1882. 

From boyhood, Mr. Stockton was a writer of 



224 



FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


225 


fairy tales, of which he write: “I caused the fanciful 
creatures who inhabited the world of fairy-land to act, 
as far as possible for them to do so, as if they were 
inhabitants of the real world. I did not dispense with 
monsters and enchanters, or talking beasts and birds, 
but I obliged these creatures to infuse into their extraor¬ 
dinary actions certain leaven of common sense.” “In 
fairy tales,” says Tassin, “Frank R. Stockton stands 
almost alone in having done considerable quantity of 
work possessing literary value.” 

After the publication of the “Ting-a-Ling Tales,” 
Mr. Stockton wrote many other stories for the young 
which were first published in magazines and later in 
book form under titles, “Round-about Rambles,” “Tales 
Out of School,” “A Jolly Fellowship,” “Personally 
Conducted,” “The Story of Viteau,” and “The Float¬ 
ing Prince.” A series of stories, ostensibly for chil¬ 
dren but really intended for adults, because of their 
deep underlying meaning, and considered by Mr. Stock- 
ton and by his critics as among his best works, were 
published in St. Nicholas , and later reprinted in a volume 
entitled “The Bee-Man of Orn and Other Stories.” 

Shortly after Mr. Stockton’s marriage to Miss Mar¬ 
ian E. Tuttle of Georgetown, South Carolina, he and his 
wife set up house-keeping in Nutley, New Jersey. Here to 
relieve the elderly maid of all work of some of her duties, 
Mrs. Stockton procured from an orphans’ home, a four¬ 
teen year old girl, described by her husband as a “mid¬ 
dle sized orphan.” “Her spare time was devoted to 
reading books of the blood-curdling variety; and she read 
them to herself aloud in the kitchen in a very disjointed 
fashion, which was at first amusing and then irritating” 
(Memorial Sketch, “The Captain’s Toll-Gate”). Mr. 
Stockton called her Pomona, a name that later became 
well known all over the w r orld through his stories, ‘ ‘ Rud¬ 
der Grange,” “The Rudder Grangers Abroad,” and 
“Pomona’s Travels.” 

Mr. Stockton’s best known story is “The Lady or 
the Tiger?” which presented a problem that has been 


226 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


the subject of debate all over the world. The author 
received hundreds of letters asking for solution of the 
question, which was one that he never attempted to 
answer. Professor Pattee says that “The Lady or the 
Tiger?” caused even the uncritical to realize “that 
short story writing had become a subtle art and that 
the master of its subtleties had his reader at his mercy. ’ ’ 

Though the writer of a large number of successful 
novels, Mr. Stockton was preeminently a writer of short 
stories. An editorial in The Century says: “The dis¬ 
tinctly huntorous stories of Stockton depend for their 
effect not so much upon the oddity of their situations— 
though his invention was delightfully playful and orig¬ 
inal—as upon their insight into the human heart, their 
truthfulness, their naturalness.” 

Most of Mr. Stockton’s literary work was done at 
The Holt at Convent, New Jersey. In 1899, he decided 
to secure another home. This decision resulted in his 
buying Claymont Court in Jefferson County, West Vir¬ 
ginia, where he spent the last years of his life. As this 
period is of special interest to West Virginians, Mrs. 
Stockton’s account is reprinted in full: 

“He had enjoyed The Holt, his New Jersey home, 
and was much interested in improving it. His neighbors 
and friends there were valued companions. But in his 
heart there had always been a longing for a home, not 
suburban—a place in the r&il country, and with more 
land. Finally, the time came when he felt that he could 
gratify this longing. He liked the Virginia climate, and 
decided to look for a place somewhere in that State, not 
far from the city of Washington. After a rather pro¬ 
longed search, we one day lighted upon Claymont, in the 
Shenandoah Valley. It won our hearts, and ended our 
search. It had absolutely everything that Mr. Stockton 
coveted. He bought it at once, and we moved into it as 
speedily as possible. 

“Claymont is a handsonxe colonial residence, ‘with 
all modern improvements’—an unusual combination. It 
lies near the historic old town of Charles Town, in West 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 227 

Virginia, near Harpers Ferry. Claymont is itself a his¬ 
toric place. The land was first owned by ‘the Father of 
His Country, ’ This great personage designed the house, 
with its main buildings, two cottages (or lodges), and 
court yards, for his nephew Bushrod, to whom' he had giv¬ 
en the land. Through the wooded park runs the old road, 
now grass grown, over which Braddock marched to his 
celebrated defeat, guided by the youthful George Wash¬ 
ington, who had surveyed the whole region for Lord 
Fairfax. During the Civil War the place twice escaped 
destruction because it had once been the property of 
Washington. 

‘ ‘ But it was not for its historical associations, but for 
the place itself, that Mr. Stockton purchased it. From 
the main road to the house there is a drive of three- 
quarters of a mile through a park of great forest-trees 
and picturesque groups of rocks. On the opposite side 
of the house extends a wide, open lawn; and here, and 
from the piazzas, a noble view of the valley and the Blue 
Ridge Mountains is obtained. Besides the park and 
other grounds, there is a farm at Claymont of consider¬ 
able size. Mr. Stockton, however, never cared for farm¬ 
ing, except in so far as it enabled him to have horses 
and stock. But his soul delighted in the big, old ter¬ 
raced garden of his West Virginia home. Compared 
with other gardens he had had, the new one w*as like 
paradise to the common world. At Claymont several 
short stories were written. ‘John Gayther’s Garden’ 
was prepared for publication here by connecting stories 
previously published into a series, told in a garden, and 
suggested by the one at Claymont. John Gayther, how¬ 
ever, was an invention. ‘Kate Bonnet’ and ‘The Cap¬ 
tain’s Toll-Gate’ were both written at Claymont. 

“Mr. Stockton was permitted to enjoy this beauti¬ 
ful place only three years. They were years of such 
rare pleasure, however, that we can rejoice that he had 
so much joy crowded into so short a space of his life, 
and that he had it at its close. Truly life was never 
sweeter to him than at its end, a.nd the world was never 


228 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

brighter to him than when he shut his eyes upon it. He 
was returning from a winter in New York to his beloved 
Claymont, in good health, and full of plans for the sum¬ 
mer and for his garden, when he was taken suddenly ill 
in Washington, and died three days later, on April 20, 
1902, a few w^eeks after ‘Kate Bonnet’ was published 
in book form. 

“Mr. Stockton passed away at a ripe age—sixty- 
eight years. And yet his death was a surprise to us all. 
He had never been in better health, apparently; his 
brain was as active as ever; life was dear to him; he 
seemed much younger than he was. He had no wish to 
give up his work; no thought of old age; no mental 
decay. His last novels, his last short stories, showed no 
falling off. They were the equals of those written in 
younger years. Nor had he lost the public interest. He 
was always sure of an audience, and his work command¬ 
ed a higher price at the last than ever before. His was 
truly a passing away. He gently glided from the homes 
he had loved to prepare here to one already prepared 
for him in heaven; unconscious that he was entering 
one more beautiful than even he had ever imagined.” 

William Dean Howells says of Frank R. Stockton: 
“His fine spirit is subtly 'with us in the far range of its 
numberless caprices and inventions, though eternity 
seems the richer and time the poorer in his going from 
us. If his fame seems in a momentary abeyance it is 
because this sort of eclipse must come to all. We must 
remember that it is the shadow of our little moon that 
now and again blots the sun, though I cannot specify 
personally any renown which has come between us and 
Stockton’s beloved name.” 


/ 















FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


229 


BLACKGUM AG’IN’ THUNDER 

Abner Batterfield, forty-five years of age and tired, hav¬ 
ing finished hoeing his last row of corn, sat down on a 
bench at his front door, took off his wide and dilapidated 
straw hat, and wiped his brow. Presently his wife 
came out. She was rather more than forty-five years 
old and of phenomenal pl^sical and mental endurance. 
She had lived seventeen years with Abner, and her na¬ 
tural vigor was not impaired. 

‘‘Supper’s ready,” said she. 

Her husband heaved a long sigh and stretched out his 
weary legs in unison. 

“Supper,” he repeated; “it’s alius eat or work or 
sleep! ’ ’ 

“Perhaps you’d like to leave out the eatin’,” said 
Mrs. Batterfield; “that would save lots.” 

Her husband ignored this remark. He was a small 
farmer, but his farm was too big for him. He had no 
family but himself and wife, but the support of that 
family taxed his energies. There was a certain mono¬ 
tony connected with coming out short at the end of the 
year which was wearisome to his soul. 

“Mrs. B,” said he, “I’ve made up my mind to start 
over ag’in.” 

“Goin’ back to the cornfield?” she asked. “You’d 
better have your supper first.” 

“No,” said he; “it’s different. I’ve been thinkin’ 
about it all day, an’ I’m goin’ to begin life all over 

v > y 

ag in. 

“At your age it would be more fit fer you to con¬ 
sider the proper endin’ of it,” said she. 

“I knew you’d say that, Mrs. B; I knew you’d say 
that! You never do agree with me in any of my plans 
and undertakin’s.” 

“Which accounts fer our still havin’ a roof over our 


From “John Gayther’s Garden and the Stories Told 
Therein,” copyright 1902 by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 
By permission of the publishers. 


< 



230 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


heads,” she said. 

“But, I kin tell you, this time I’m goin’ ahead. I 
don’t care what people say; I don’t care what they do 
or what they don’t do; I’m goin’ ahead. It’ll be black- 
gum ag’in’ thunder this time, and I’m blackgum. You’ve 
heard about the thunder an’ lightnin’ tacklin’ a black- 
gum tree?” 

“Ever since I was born,” said she. 

“Well, there’s a awful scatterin’ of dust an’ chips 
when that sort of a fight is on; but nobody ever yet heard 
of thunder gettin’ the better of a blackgum-tree. An’ 
I’m goin’ to be a blackgum!” 

Mrs. Batterfield made no reply to this remark, but 
in her heart she said: “An I’m goin’ to be thunder.” 

The next morning, Abner Batterfield put on his best 
clothes, and walked to the little town about two miles dis¬ 
tant. He did not enter the business part of the place, but 
turned into a shady side street where stood a small one- 
story building, almost by itself. This was the village 
library, and the librarian was sitting in the door-way, 
reading a book. He was an elderly man of comfortable 
contour, and wore no glasses, even for the finest print. 

‘ ‘ Mornin ’, Abner, ’ ’ said the librarian; ‘ ‘ have you 
brought back that book?” 

Abner seated himself on the door-step. “No, I 
haven’t, Mr. Brownsill,” said he; “I forgot it. But I 
remember some things that’s in it, and I’ve come to talk 
about ’em.” 

“Very good,” said the librarian, closing the volume 
of Salmon’s Geographical Grammer with his finger at 
page 35, treating of paradoxes, and remarked: “Well, 
Abner, what is it?” 

Then Abner Batterfield told his tale. He was going 
to make a fresh start; he was going to spend the rest of 
his life in some manner worthy of him. He had not read 
much of the book he had taken out of the library, for in 
his present way of spending his life, there did not seem 
to be any very good time for reading, but it was about 
success in life, and he had read enough of this to make 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


231 


him feel that it was time for him to make a fresh start, 
and he was going to do it. 

“Am 7 I may have a tough time,” said Abner; “but it’ll 
be blackgum ag’in’ thunder, an’ I’m blackgum!” 

The librarian smiled. “What are you going to 
do?” said he. 

“That’s a thing,” said Abner, “I’m not so certain 
about. I’ve been thinkin’ of enterin’ the ministry; but 
the bother about that is, I can’t make up my mind which 
particular denomination to enter. There’s such a differ¬ 
ence in ’em.” 

“That’s true,” said Mr. Brownsill; “that’s very 
true! But haven’t you a leaning for some one of them 
in particular?” 

“In thinkin’ it over,” said Abner, “I’ve been 
drawn to the Quakers. So far as I kin ’ find out, there’s 
nothin’ a Quaker preacher has to do if he don’t want to.” 

“But then, on the other hand,” said the librarian, 
“there’s no pay.” 

“Which won’t work at all,” said Abner, “so that’s got 
to be dropped. As to the Methodists, there’s too much 
work. A man might as well stick to hoein’ corn.” 

“What do you think of the Catholics?” asked the 
librarian, meditatively. “I should think a monk in a 
cell might suit you. I don’t believe you’d be expected 
to do much work in a cell.” 

Abner cogitated. “But there ain’t no pay in that, 
no more’n if I was a Quaker. An’ there’s Mrs. B. to be 
considered. I tell you, Mr. Brownsill, it’s awful hard 
makin’ a ch’ice.” 

The librarian opened his book and took a good look 
at the number of the page on which paradoxes were treat¬ 
ed, so that he might remember it; then he rose and put 
the old volume upon the table, and, turning to Abner, 
he looked at him steadfastly. 

“Abner Batterfield,” said he, “I understand the 
state of your mind, and it is plain enough that it’s pretty 
hard for you to make a choice of a new path in life; but 
perhaps I can help you. How would you like to be a 


232 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


librarian ? ’ ’ 

“Me!” exclaimed Abner, amazed. 

“I don’t mean,” said Mr. Brownsill, “that you 
should take up this business for life without knowing 
whether you like it or not, but I can offer you what 
might be called a sample situation. I want to go away 
for a couple of weeks to visit my relations, and if you 
will come and attend to the library while I’m gone, it 
might be a good thing for both of us. Then, if you don’t 
like the business of a librarian, you might sample some 
other calling or profession.” 

Abner rose from the door-step, and entering the 
room, stood before Mr. Brownsill. ‘ ‘ That’s the most sensi¬ 
ble thing,” said he, “that I ever heard said in all my life 
Sample first and go into afterwards: That’s sound rea¬ 
son. Mr. Brownsill, I will do it.” 

“Good!” said the librarian. “And the duties are 
not difficult.” 

“An’ the pay?” asked Abner. 

“Just what I get,’ said Mr. Brownsill. 

The bargain was made, and Abner immediately 
began taking lessons in the duties of a librarian. 

When he went home he told his tale to Mrs. Batter- 
field. “I have hoed my last row of corn,” said he, “an’ 
when it’s fit to cut an’ shock we’ll hire a man. There’s 
librarians, Mrs. B, so Mr. Brownsill told me, that gets 
thousands a year. Think of that Mrs. B.—thousands a 
year! ’ ’ 

Mrs. Batterfield made no reply to this remark, but 
in her heart she said: “An’ I am thunder.” 

Early the next morning, long before the ordinary 
time for opening the library, Abner was at his post. He 
took the key from the concealed nail where Mr. Brownsill 
was wont to hang it. He opened the door and windows, 
as the librarian had told him he must do; he swept the 
floor; he dusted the books; and then he took the water 
pail and proceeded to the pump hard by. He filled it, 
then he sat down and wiped his brow. He had done so 
much sitting down and brow-wiping in his life that it 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


233 


had become a habit with him even when he was neither 
hot nor tired. 

This little library was certainly a very pleasant place 
in which to earn one’s living—ten thousand times more 
to his taste than the richest corn-field. Around the walls 
were book-shelves, some of them nearly filled with books, 
most of which, judging from their bindings, were of a 
sober—if not a somber turn of mind. 

“Some of these days,” said Abner, “I am goin’ to 
read those books; I never did have time to read books.” 

From the ceiling there hung, too high to be con¬ 
veniently dusted, a few stuffed birds, and one small alli¬ 
gator. ‘‘Some of these days,” said Abner to himself, 
“I am goin’ to get on a step-ladder an’ look at them birds 
an’ things. I never did properly know .what they was.” 

Now footsteps were heard on the side-walk, and 
Abner jumped up cpiickly and redusted a book upon the 
table. There entered two little girls, the ehler one with 
her hair plaited down her back. They looked in surprise 
at Abner, who smiled. 

“I guess you want to see Mr. Brownsill,” he said. 
“Well, I’m in his place now, and all you got to do is to 
tell me what book you want.” 

“Please, sir,” said the one with plaits, “mother 
wants to know if you can change a quarter of a dollar.” 

This proposed transaction seemed to Abner to be a 
little outside of a librarian’s business, but he put his hand 
in his pocket and said he would see. When he had ex¬ 
tracted all the change that pocket contained he found 
that he was the owner of three nickels and five copper 
cents. He tried some other pockets, but there was no 
money in any of them. He was disappointed; he did 
not want to begin his intercourse with the townspeople 
by failing to do the first favor asked of him. He looked 
around the room; he rubbed his nose. In a moment an 
idea struck him. 

“How much do you want to get out of this quar¬ 
ter?” said he. 

“Ten cents, sir,” said the girl with the plaits. “The 


234 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


woman’s waitin’ fer it now.” 

“ I ’ll tell you, ’ ’ said Abner, ‘ ‘ what I kin do. All I 
have got is twenty cents. Two of these nickels will do 
fer the woman, and then fer the other five cents you kin 
take out a book fer a week. A duodecimo volume fer a 
week is five cents. Is there any duodecimo volume you 
would like?” 

The girl with the plaits said she did not know, and 
that all she wanted was change fer a quarter. 

“Which this will be,” said Abner. 

Asking the little girls to follow him, he approached 
the book shelves. “Now here’s something,” said he, 
presently, taking down a book. “It’s Buck’s ‘ Theologi¬ 
cal Dictionary,’ an’ it’s got a lot of different things in it. 
Some of them your mother might like to read to you. I 
once read one piece in that book myself. It is about the 
Inquisition, an’ when I began it I couldn’t stop until I 
got to the end of it. I guess your mother might like to 
read that, even if she don’t read it to you.” 

The little girl said she did not know whether her 
mother would like it or not, but what she had been sent 
for was change for a quarter. 

‘ ‘ This will be the same thing, ’ ’ said Abner; ‘ ‘ twenty 
cents in money, an’ five cents fer a duodecimo fer one 
week. So take the money and the book, my dear, an’ 
tell your mother that if she keeps it out longer than one 
week there’ll be a fine.” 

The child and the duodecimo departed, and Abner 
sat down again, and wiped his brow. “There’s one cus¬ 
tomer,” said he, “and that’s the way to do business. 
They come to get you to do something f£r them, and be¬ 
fore they know it, they’re doin’ business with you, payin’ 
cash in advance. But there’s one thing I forgot. I 
oughter asked them young ones what their mother’s 
name was. But I’ll remember ’em, specially the one 
with the plaited hair, so it’s all the same.” 

The little girls went home. “It’s a new man at the 
library,” said the one with the plaits, “an’ he hadn’t got 
no more’n twenty cents in money; but he sent you a 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


235 


book for the other five cents.” 

The mother, with her baby in her lap, gave the ten 
cents to the woman who was waiting, and then took the 
book, which opened quite naturally at the article on the 
inquisition, and began to read. And, although the 
baby grew restless and cried, she did not stop reading 
until she had finished that article. “The book’s fully 
worth five cents, ’ ’ she said to herself, as she put it on the 
shelf for future perusal. 

It was not long before the thought struck Abner that 
he was losing opportunities which spread themselves 
around him, so he jumped up and took down a book. 
The volume proved to be one of “Elegant Extracts;” 
but after reading certain reflections “Upon Seeing Mr. 
Pope’s House at Binfield,” he thought he would like 
something more in the nature of a story, and took up a 
thinner volume entitled “Dick’s Future State.” He 
turned over the leaves, hoping to meet with some of the 
adventures of Dick but his attention was arrested by a 
passage which asserted that arithmetic would' be one of 
the occupations to be followed in heaven. He was about 
to put away the book in disgust—for to him there was 
no need of a man’s being good in this world if he were 
to be condemned to arithmetic in the next,—when the 
light from the open door was darkened by a large body 
that approached in carpet slippers, making no noise. 
This proved to be a round and doleful negro woman, 
the greater part of her face wrapped up in a red and 
green handkerchief. Her attire was somewhat nonde¬ 
script, and entirely unsuggestive of literary inclinations. 
She groaned as she entered the room. 

“Whar Mr. Bro’nsill?” she asked, with one hand 
to her face. 

Abner was amazed. Was it possible that this wom¬ 
an could read, and that she cared for books? He ex¬ 
plained the situation, and assured her that he could at¬ 
tend to her as well as the regular librarian. 

“I’se mighty glad to hear dat,” said the woman— 
“I’se mighty glad to hear dat, fer I has n’t slep’ one 


236 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

wink de whole night fer dis tooth. Mr. Bro ’nsill he alius 
pulls my teeth, an’ dey nebber has been one what ached 
as bad as dis.” 

With this she began to unwrap her swollen face. 

“Yo need n’t do that,” cried Abner; “I can’t pull 
teeth. You must go to the dentist.” 

‘ ‘ That ’ll be fifty cents, ’ ’ said the woman; ‘ 1 An ’ Mr. 
Bro’nsill he don’t charge nothin’. I know whar he 
keeps his pinchers. Dey’s in dat drawer in de table, 
an’ you kin pull hit out jes as well as anudder pusson. 
I’d pull hit out ef I wuz anudder pusson.” 

Abner shook his head. “I never pulled a tooth,” 
he said, “I don’t know nothin’ about it.” 

“Don’ dey tell somethin’ about pullin’ teeth in dese 
here books?”’ said the woman. 

Abner shook his head. “There may be,” he said, 
“but I don’t know where to find it.” 

“An’ you’s de librarian,” said she, in a tone of 
supreme contempt, “an’ don’ know how to fin’ what’s 
in de books! ’ ’ And with this she rewrapped her face 
and wabbled away. 

“I hope the next one will want a book,” said Abner 
to himself, “an’ won’t want nothin’ else. If I’m to be 
librarian, I want to fork out books.” 

The morning passed, and no one else appeared. The 
forenoon was not the time when people generally came 
for books in that town. 

After he had eaten the dinner he had brought, Abner 
sat down to meditate a little. He was not sure that the 
life of a librarian would suit him. It was almost as 
lonesome as hoeing corn. 

Sometime after these reflections,—it might have 
been a minute, it might have been an hour,—he was 
awakened by a man’s voice, and suddenly started up¬ 
right in his chair. 

“Hello!” said the voice, “you keepin’ library fer 
old Brownsill?” 

“That’s what I’m doin’,” said Abner; “he’s away 
fer his holiday.” 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


237 


The newcomer, Joe Pearson, who had been assistant 
to the town clerk, but was now out of a position, was a 
stout man with little eyes, and wore a shiny black coat 
and no collar. 

“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “Mr. Brownsill’s 
a little too sharp fer my fancy; I’d rather do business 
with you. Have you got any books on eggs?” 

‘ ‘ I don’t know, ’ ’ said Abner; ‘ ‘ but I kin look. What 
kind of eggs?” 

“I don’t suppose there’s a different book fer every 
kind of egg,” said Joe; “I guess they’re lumped.” 

“All right,” said Abner; “step up to the shelves, 
an’ we’ll take a look. Now here’s one that I’ve just been 
glancin’ over myself. It seems to have a lot of different 
things in it. It’s called ‘Elegant Extracts.’ ” 

“ ‘Elegant Extracts’ won’t do,” said Joe; “they 
ain’t eggs.” 

“E-E-E-” said Abner, anxious to make a good show 
in the eyes of his acquaintance, who had the reputation 
of being a man of considerable learning—” ‘Experi¬ 
mental Christianity’—but that won’t do.” 

After fifteen or twenty minutes occupied in scrutiny 
of backs of books, Joe Pearson gave up the search. “I 
don’t believe there’s a book on eggs in the whole darned 
place,” said he. “That’s just like Brownsill; he hasn’t 
got no fancy fer nothin’ practical.” 

“What do you want to know about eggs?” said 
Abner. 

Mr. Pearson did not immediately answer, but after a 
few moments of silent consideration he walked to the 
door and closed it. Then he sat down and invited Abner 
to sit near him. “Look here, Abner Batterfield,” said 
he; “ I’ve got a idee that’s goin ’ to make my fortune. I 
want somebody to help me, an’ I don’t see why you 
couldn’t do it as well as anybody else. Fer one thing, 
you’ve got a farm.” 

Abner started back. “Confound the farm!” he 
said. “I’ve given up farmin’ an’ I don’t want nothin’ 
more to do with it.” 


238 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


“Yes, you will want,” said Pearson, “when I’ve 
told you what I’m goin’ to do; but it won’t be common 
farmin’:—it’ll be mighty different. There’s money in 
this kind of farmin’, an’ no work to mention, nuther,” 

Abner now became interested. 

“It concerns eggs,” said Pearson. “Abner, did 
you ever hear about the eggs of the great auk?” 

“Great hawk!” said Abner. 

‘ ‘ Not hawk! Auk—a-u-k. ’ ’ 

“Never seen the bird,” said Abner. 

“I reckon not,’ said the other; “they say they ex- 
tincted sometime before the war, but I don’t believe 
that. I’ve been readin’ a piece about ’em, Abner; an’ I 
tell you it it just roused me up, an’ that’s the reason I’ve 
come here, s’posin’ I might find a book that might give 
me some new p’ints. But I reckon I know enough to 
work on.” 

“Is there anything uncommon about ’emi?” asked 
Abner. 

‘ ‘ Uncommon ! ’ ’ exclaimed the other. ‘ ‘ Do you know 
what a great auk’s egg is wuth? It’s wuth one thousand 
eight hundred dollars!” 

“A car-load?” asked Abner. 

“Stuff!” ejaculated Mr. Pearson; “it’s that much 
fer one —an’ that one blowed, nothin’ but a shell, not a 
thing inside—eighteen hundred dollars! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ By George! ’ ’ exclaimed Abner; ‘ ‘ eighteen hun¬ 
dred dollars!” 

“An’ that’s the lowest figure. Great auk eggs is 
wuth twenty-one thousand an’ six hundred dollars a 
dozen! ’’ 

Abner rose from his chair. “Joe Pearson,” he said, 
“what are you talkin’ about?” 

“I’m talkin’ about makin’ the biggest kind of 
rtfoney; an ’ if you choose to go in with me, you kin make 
big money too. I’m all correct, an’ I kin show you the 
figures.” 

Abner now sat down and leaned over toward Pear¬ 
son. “Whar’s it likely to find nests?” said he. 



FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


239 


1 1 Nests!” exclaimed Pearson, in disdain. “If I 
could find two eggs, fresh ones,—I’d call my fortune 
made. ’ ’ 

“I should say so,” said Abner, “sellin’ ’em fer 
thirty-six hundred dollars. But what is there so all- 
fired good about ’em to make ’em sell like that?” 

“Sceerceness,” said Joe; “apart from sceerceness, 
they ain ’t no better ’n any other egg. But there’s mighty 
few of ’em in market now, an’ all of them’s blowed.” 

“An’ no good?” said Abner. 

“They say not,” said the other. “Fer simple 
sceerceness they’re better blowed than not.” 

“But what’s your idee about ’em*?” said Abner. 

“That’s what I’m goin’ to tell you,” replied Pear¬ 
son. “There’s a general notion that there ain’t no more 
great auks, specially hen great auks, an’ that’s why their 
eggs are so sceerce. But I don’t see the p’int of that; 
it don’t stand to reason. Fer now an’ then somebody 
finds a great auk egg, an’ if you find ’em they’ve got to 
be laid; an’ if they’re laid there’s got to be hen great 
auks somewhar. Now the p ’int is to find out whar them 
hen great auks lay. It may be a awful job to do it, but 
if I kin do it, an’ get just two eggs, my fortune’s made, 
and yourn too.” 

“Would you divide the thirty-six hundred dollars 
even?” Abner was now interested. 

“Divide!” sneered Pearson; “do you suppose I’d 
sell ’em? No, sir; I’d set ’em. Then, sir, I’d go into the 
great auk business. I’d sell eggs an’ make my fortune— 
an’ yourn too.” 

“An’ young ones, if we get a lot?” 

“No sir!” exclaimed Pearson; “nobody’d own no 
auks but me. You can’t catch ’em alive, an’ I wouldn’t 
sell no eggs at all till they’d first been blowed. I’d keep 
the business all in my own hands. Abner, I’ve been 
thinkin’ a great deal about this thing. You’ve heard 
about the lively sixpence an’ the slow dollar? Well, sir, 
I’m goin’ to sell them auk eggs fer sixteen hundred dol¬ 
lars apiece, an’ two fer three thousand.” 


240 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Abner sat and looked at his companion. “That 
would be better than ’most any other kind of business,” 
he said. “Whar do you go to get them eggs?” 

“ ‘Way up north,” said Pearson; “an’ the furder 
north you go, the more likely you are to find ’em.” 

“I don’t know about goin’ north,” said Abner, re¬ 
flectively; “there’s Mrs. B. to consider.” 

“But I don’t want you to go,” said Pearson; “I’m 
goin’ north myself, an’ when I’ve found a couple o’ auk 
eggs, I’ll pack ’em up nice an’ warm in cotton an’ send 
’em down to you an’ have ’em hatched. That’s whar 
your farm’ll come in. You’ve got to have a farm an’ 
turkeys or big hens if you want to raise auks. Then I ’ll 
go on lookin’, an’, most likely, I’ll get a couple more.” 

“That’ll be a good thing,” said Abner; “the more 
the merrier. I’ll go in with you, Joe Pearson; that’s the 
sort of business that’ll just suit me. But I’ll tell you 
one thing, Joe—I wouldn’t put the price of them eggs 
down at first; I’d wait until a couple of dozen had been 
laid an’ blowed, an’ then, perhaps, I’d put the price 
down. ” 

“No, sir,” said Joe; “I’ll put the price down at the 
very beginning. Sixteen hundred dollars apiece, or three 
thousand fer two, is enough fer any eggs, an’ we oughter 
be satisfied with it.” 

“An’ when are you goin’ to start north?” asked 
Abner. 

“That’s the p’int,” said Pearson—“that’s the p’int. 
You see, Abner, I ain’t got no family, an’ I can start 
north whenever I please, as far as that’s concerned. But 
there’s obstacles. Fer one thing, I ain’t got the right 
kind of clothes; and then there’s other things. It’s 
awful hard lines, startin’ out on a business like this; an’ 
the more money there is in it, the harder the lines. ’ ’ 

“But you kin do it, Joe,” said Abner; “I feel in my 
bones you kin do it. It’ll be blackgum ag’in’ thunder, 
but you’ll be blackgum an’ you’ll come out all right.” 

“I can’t be blackgum nor nothin’ else,” said Pear¬ 
son, “if I don’t get no help; specially if I don’t get no 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


241 


help from the party what’s goin’ to get a lot of the 
money.” 

Abner reflected. “There’s some sense in that,” he 

said. 

Joe Pearson was a man of resourceful discretion. 
He rose. “Now, Abner,” said he, “I’ve got to go; I’ve 
got a lot of things on my hands. But I want you to 
remember that what I’ve said to you, I said to you, an’ 
I wouldn’t have no other man know nothin’ about it. If 
anybody else should hear of this thing an’ go north an’ 
get ahead of me, it would be—Well, I don’t know what 
to say it would be, I’ve such feelin’s about it. I’ve of¬ 
fered to take you in because you’ve got a farm, an’ 
because I think you’re a good man an’ would know how 
to take care of auks when they was hatched. But there’s 
a lot fer nm to do; there’s maps to look over, an’ time¬ 
tables; an’ I must be off. But I’ll stop in to-morrer, 
Abner, an’ we’ll talk this over again.” 

When Pearson had gone, Abner sat and stared stead¬ 
ily at a knot-hole in the floor. “Mrs. B.,” he said to 
himself, “has alius been a great one on eggs; she’s the 
greatest one on eggs I ever knowed. If she’d go in now, 
the thing ’u’d be just as good as done. When she knows 
what’s ahead of us she oughter go in. That’s all I’ve 
got to say about it.” 

The significance of these reflections depended upon 
the fact that Mrs. Batterfield had a small income. It 
was upon this fact also that there depended the other fact 
that there were three meals a day in the Batterfield 
home. It was this fact, also, which was the cause of Mr. 
Joe Pearson’s proposition. He was very well acquaint¬ 
ed with Abner, although he knew Mrs. Batterfield but 
slightly. But he was aware of her income. 

After reflecting for about twenty minutes upon the 
exciting proposition which had been made to him, Abner 
grew very impatient. “No use of my stayin’ here,” 
he said; “there’s nobody goin’ to get out books in this 
hot weather; so I’ll just shut up shop an’ go home. I 
never did want to see Mrs. B. as much as I want to see 


242 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


her now.” 

“Libraries seem to shut up early,” said Mrs. Bat¬ 
terfield as her husband walked into the front yard. 

“Yes, they do,” said Abner, “in summer-time.” 

All the way from town he had been rehearsing to 
himself the story he was going to tell; but he had not 
finished it yet, and he wanted to get it all straight before 
he began, so he walked over to the barn and sat down on 
an inverted horse-bucket. When he got it all straight 
he concluded not to tell it until after supper, and when 
that meal was finished and everything had been cleared 
away, and Mrs. Batterfield had gone to sit on the front 
porch, as was her evening custom, he sat down by her and 
told his story. 

He made the tale as attractive as he possibly could 
make it; he even omitted the fact that Joe Pearson in¬ 
tended to sell his first eggs for sixteen hundred dollars 
instead of eighteen hundred, and he diminished by very 
many hundred miles the length of his friend’s probable 
journey to the north. 

Mrs. Batterfield listened with great attention. She 
was engaged with some sewing, upon which her eyes were 
fixed, but her ears drank in every word that Abner said. 
When he had finished, she laid down her work, for it 
was beginning to get a little dark for even her sharp 
eyes, and remarked; ‘ ‘ An ’ he wants some warm clothes ? 
Furs, I suppose?” 

“Yes,” said Abner; “I expect they’d be furs.” 

“An’ travelin’ expenses?” she asked. 

“Yes, I suppose he’d want help in that way. Of 
course, since he’s makin ’ me such a big offer, he ’ll expect 
me to put in somethin’.” 

Mrs. Batterfield made no reply, but folded up her 
sewing and went indoors. He waited until she had time 
to retire, then he closed the house and went up himself. 

“She’ll want to sleep on that,” said he; “it’ll be a 
good thing fer her to sleep on it. She mayn’t like it at 
first, but I’ll go at her ag’in tomorrer, an’ I’m goin’ to 
stick to it. I reckon it ’ll be the worst rassle we ever had, 


FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 


243 


but it’s blackgum ag’in’ thunder, an’ I’m blackgum.” 

When Abner reached his chamber he found his wife 
sitting quietly by the table, on which burned a lamp. 

“Hello!” said he; “I thought you’d be abed an’ 
asleep.” 

“I didn't want to do my talkin’ out front,” said 
she; “fer there might be people passin’ along the road. 
I think you said this was to be a case of blackgum ag’in’ 
thunder ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Abner, in a somewhat uncertain tone. 

“Well, then,” said Mrs. Batterfield, “I’m thunder.” 

It was very late when that couple went to bed, but 
it was very early the next morning when Abnor rose. 
He split a great deal of fire-wood before breakfast, and 
very soon after that meal he put his hoe on his shoulder 
and went to his corn-field. He remembered that there 
were three rows of corn which he had hoed only upon 
one side. 

The library was not opened that day, and it re¬ 
mained closed until Mr. Brownsill returned. The fail¬ 
ure in the supply of books did not occasion very much 
comment in the town, for everybody agreed that the 
librarian was a good man and ought to have a holiday. 

When his vacation had expired, Mr. Brownsill came 
home, and on the second morning after his arival Abner 
Batterfield appeared before him. “I had to come in 
town,’ said Abner, “an’ so I thought I’d step in here an’ 
see about my pay.” 

The librarian looked at him]. “How long were you 
here?” he asked. “I’ve been told that the library was 
shut up for two weeks.” 

‘ ‘ I was here fer three quarters of a day, ’ ’ said Abner. 
“That’s about as near as I kin calculate.” 

The librarian took up a pencil and made a calcu¬ 
lation. 

“By the way,” said he, “you must have done some 
business. I miss our copy of Buck’s 'Theological Dic¬ 
tionary,’ but I find no entry about it.” 


244 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

“That was took out as change,” said Abner; “five 
cents fer a duodecimo fer a week, an’ the rest in cash. 
If the woman hasn’t brought it back, she owes a week’s 
fine. ’ ’ 

“Who was the woman?” asked the librarian. 

‘ 4 1 don’t know, ’ ’ said Abner; ‘ ‘ but she has a daugh¬ 
ter with plaited hair an’ a small sister. While I’m in 
town I’ll try to look ’em up.” 

“In the meantime,” said Mr. Brownsill, “I’ll have 
to charge you for that book; and deducting your pay for 
three quarters of a day, you now owe me seventy-five 
cents. I don’t suppose there’s any use talking about the 
fines I have got down against you?” 

“I don’t believe there is,” said Abner. 

The librarian could not help smiling, so dejected 
was the tone in which these last words were spoken. 

“By the way,” said he, “how about your great 
fight you were talking about—blackgum ag’in’ thunder— 
how did that turn out?” 

Abner in his turn smiled. 

‘‘ Blackgum was split as fine as matches, ’ ’ said he. 

The Century, 1901. 


HERBERT QUICK 

ohn Herbert Quick, the son of Martin and Margaret 
(Coleman) Quick, was born near Steamboat Rock, 
Grundy County, Iowa, October 23, 1861. He was 
educated in the rural schools which he began to attend 
when he was four and a half years old. At the end of 
the first term of six months, he was reading in the fifth 
reader. In a recent article in The American Magazine, 

Mr. Quick gives the fol¬ 
lowing interesting ac¬ 
count of his bovhood and 
•/ 

its dreams and achieve¬ 
ments : 

“You would have 
smiled if you had seen 
me at ten and could have 
known that I was aiming 
at the goal of literary 
success. If you had seen 
me after the frost was 
on the ground, I should 
have been barefooted, 
my feet, afflicted with 
festered sores, from the 
stubs of burnt grass on 
the prairie. I should 
have either been going to 
school, or sitting—my white Dutch hair hanging down 
over my face—on the old wooden forms in the poor little 
schoolhouse, reciting to a teacher who did not know so 
much about some of the common branches, all that were 
taught, as I did; or I should have been following the 
plow or harrow, limping along over the clods; or mounted 
on an old cream-colored mare, herding the cattle. Or I 
:should have been seen armed with a loop of string, snar- 




245 




246 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


ing gophers to keep them from digging up the corn. Or 
perhaps, in a rare case, 1 should have been carrying a 
string of little fish caught in the pellucid brook which 
ran buried in the tall grass.'’ 

At the age of sixteen, realizing that he would not 
be able to go to college, Mr. Quick decided to take an ex¬ 
amination for admission to West Point, with the intention 
of resigning from the Army as soon as he had been grad¬ 
uated. He had no trouble in passing the mental exami¬ 
nation, but, greatly to his mother's relief, he failed to pass 
the physical examination. 

Prom 1882 until 1890, Mr. Quick was engaged in 
teaching, and was at one time principal of a ward school 
in Mason City, Iowa. He has always retained his inter¬ 
est in the profession of teaching. In a recent letter to 
The West Virginia School Journal and Educator, he says: 

‘ £ To the teachers, I have given my message 
in my book ‘ The Brown Mouse. ’ This is my 
thesis on rural education, the branch of educa¬ 
tion in which I am most interested. ’’ 

That Mr. Quick has been a man of many occupations 
is evidenced by his own account of his activities: ‘ ‘ I 

dabbled in music. I took roles in amateur opera. I was 
active in local politics. I nearly got myself nominated for 
clerk of the courts, so as to take my legal course in that 
way, as our law permitted. I got myself into local poli¬ 
tic© in the educational line. So I accumulated literary 
material in these fields. But I was always troubled by my 
stagnancy so far as progress in writing was concerned.” 

In 1889, he was admitted to the Iowa bar, and prac¬ 
ticed law from 1890 until 1899 in Sioux City. 

In 1890, Mr. Quick married Miss Ella D. Corey of 
Syracuse, New York. 

His first book was written for his little son. “Tt 
was a tale of the Puk Wudjies,” writes the author, 
“ which T aspired to make the household American fairy. 
It wasn’t very bad, I think; but it did not do for the 
Puk Wudjies what I had hoped—nor for me.” 


HERBERT QUICK 


247 


One spring day, in 1901, the smell of smoke brought 
back to Mr. Quick the old days spent on [the prairies, and, 
instead of going to luncheon, he sat in his law office, 
and wrote “A Whiff of Smoke,” a poem which won for 
him his first recognition as a writer. He received his 
accolade from Robert Underwood Johnson of The Cen¬ 
tury and a check. Since the appearance of this poem 
in The Century, Mr. Quick has been a frequent contri¬ 
butor to various publications, among them The Saturday 
Evening Post, The Country Gentlemen, The Ladies’ 
Home Journal, and a number of sociological journals. 

In 1904, Mr. Quick published “Aladdin & Co.” 
and in 1905 “Double Trouble,” the success of which 
led him to give over his share of the law business 
to his partner. Shortly after the publication of “The 
Broken Lance,” which is regarded by Mr. Quick as his 
best sociological novel and which added more to his 
reputation as a writer than to his income, he became the 
editor of Farm and Fireside. He w r as very successful 
in this work and, in 1916, he accepted a position on the 
Federal Farm Loan Bureau at a salary of $10,000 a 
year. In 1919, he resigned in order to finish “Vande- 
mark’s Folly,” a story which he had told to his publish¬ 
ers fifteen years before, and which he had partly written. 
Mr. Quick says: “But I was not through following 
squirrel tracks off into the woods. It seems to be an 
ingrained weakness in me to find too many things inter¬ 
esting. I headed a commission for the American Red 
Cross, to wind up their affairs in Siberia, and there I 
went down so low with an illness in Vladivostock that I 
was given up to die by the doctors—and by myself. My 
last message was to a friend of mine, to finish ‘Vande- 
mark’s Folly’ for me. 

“But I lived to come home and finish it myself. 
Thus at sixty I reached what I had fixed as my goal at 
ten—but which now seems to me only a new point of 
departure.” 

“Vandemark’s Folly” was first published in The 
Ladies’ Home Journal and appeared in book form in the 


248 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

spring of 1922. It was not only one of the most popular 
books of the year but is regarded by literary critics as 
one of the outstanding American novels. A review in 
The Literary Digest of May 13, 1922, says: “There 
ought to be more books like that of Mr. Quick’s with its 
true epic quality, its great song of the making of our 
country. Here is a story that no lover of America can 
afford to miss, for it is filled with that wonderful spirit 
that has made America. You feel the growth of the 
nation as you read it, and the transmutation of the wil¬ 
derness into a land of homes and farms. You struggle 
with those that fought for this transformation, you put 
yourself against the forces of disintegration, the selfish 
and the evil, and triumph with the sowers and reapers, 
and know that the work was good.” 

About ten years ago, Mr. Quick decided to make 
West Virginia his home, and bought Coolfont, a hand¬ 
some estate near Berkeley Springs. It is a matter of 
pride to West Virginians that Mr. Quick should have 
reached the goal which he set for himself when a ten- 
year-old boy, while living in the State of his adoption. 

A WHIFF OF SMOKE 

Floating sprite-wise through the night, 

Greeting nostril, baffling sight, 

Whiff of smoke from burning grasses, 
Hashish-like, to visions passes, 

Into magic trances throws me; 

Scenes gone by forever shows me. 

# * # # # 

All the hills are tipped with red; 

Squadrons march with crackling tread, 
Through the swales make roaring charges, 

Die in smoke at oozy marges, 

Form in flickering hollow squares, 

Paint the sky with signal-flares, 

Throw their barred light ’cross my bed— 

Every hilltop tipped with red! 


COOLFONT, THE HOME OF HERBERT QUICK 





















































HERBERT QUICK 


249 


Or, perhaps, my April sky, 

Wind-swept all day long and dry, 
Glooms, until the westering sun 
Glows, now red, now darkly dun. 

Lower sinks the sun, but higher 
Mounts the slant-blown fringe of fire. 

Frightened, fluttering, scream the birds; 
Blindly flee the fear-crazed herds; 
Roaring, fanned by parching blast, 
Sweeps the crimson whirlwind past. 
Blackened monochrome behind; 

Embers scenting all the wind; 

Ghosts of smoke, in gauzy white, 
Fjloating sprite-wise through the night. 

Searching over each swart knoll, 
Whistling, forth at morn I stroll, 

Half her secrets, stripped of cover, 
Nature lays before her lover. 

See that tortoise, stolid loafer! 

Yonder darts the wooing gopher. 

Down from out the speckless sky 
Falls the soaring crane’s wild cry. 
Hark! that cheery roundel, hark! 
Always blithe, the meadow-lark! 

From the peat-bed calls the drake; 
Basking lies the glistering snake; 

Like a hunter to his hound, 

Pipes the curlew, circling round; 
Clasping both her wings above her, 
Whistling clear, alights the plover; 
Unscorched cowslips gild the bog, 
Bower of the prating frog; 

Thoughtless, thankless, careless, I 
Watch each shape of plain and sky; 

See the prairie wild-folk, see 
All, and feel his mystery. 


250 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Yet my quest is not for tlirill 
Running down from cloud and hill. 

Where the prairie-hen has laid 
Pearly treasures, now betrayed 
By the white glints which attest 
Burnt-up shelter, ruined nest, 

Here I fill my basket up; 

Cook my meal in tiny cup; 

Singing, stray from knoll to knoll, 

Nature speaking with my soul. 

* # * # * 

Pavement, street, and city pass, 

At the whiff from burning grass, 

Greeting nostril, baffling sight, 

Sprite-wise floating through the night. 

THE HEART OP GOLIATH 

(The Story Told by the Groom) 

I first saw him on the platform just before my train 
pulled out from Sioux City to Aberdeen. He was a per¬ 
fect mountain—an Alp, a Himalaya—of man. He must 
have been well toward seven feet tall; and so vast were 
his proportions that as he stooped to the window to 
buy his ticket he reminded me of a mastiff peering into 
a mouse’s hole. From a distance—one could scarcely 
take in the details at close range—I studied him as a 
remarkable specimen of the brawny western farmer, 
whose score in any exhibition would he lowered by one 
fact only: lofty as his height was, he was getting too 
heavy for it. 

I had to go into the smoking-car to find a vacant 


From “Yellowstone Nights,” by Herbert Quick, copy¬ 
right 1911. Used by special permission of the publishers, 
the Bobbs-Merrill Company. 




HERBERT QUICK 


251 


seat, and there I could see but one. I had but just slipped 
into it when in came the Gargantuan farmer and sat 
down all over me, in a seemingly ruthless exercise of his 
undoubted right to half the seat, and his unquestionable 
ability to appropriate as much more as his dimensions 
required. Falstaff with his page reminded himself of 
a sow that had overwhelmed all her litter save one: I 
felt like the last of the litter in process of smothering. 
And he was as ignorant of my existence, apparently, as 
could possibly be required by the comparison. 

He wore with bucolic negligence clothes of excellent 
quality. His hat was broad as a prairie. I have no 
idea where such hats are bought. I am sure I never saw 
one of such amplitude of brim on sale anywhere. It was 
of the finest felt, and had a band of heavy leather press¬ 
ed into a design in bas-relief. A few dried alfalfa 
leaves had lodged in the angle between the crown and 
the brim, and clung there, even when he took the hat 
off to wipe his brow, thus giving me a view of the plateau 
of felt, which I should never have obtained otherwise. 

His face was enormous but not puffy; and the red 
veinlets on the cheek and nose had acquired their varicos¬ 
ity by weathering rather than by indulgence. His hair 
was clipped short, as though he had had a complete job 
done as a measure of economizing time. He had a high 
beak of a nose ,with rugged promontories of bone at the 
bridge, like the shoulders of a hill; and his mouth was a 
huge but well-shaped feature, hard and inflexible like 
the mouth of a cave. 

His shirt was of blue flannel, clean and fine, and its 
soft roll collar fell away from his great muscular neck 
unconfined and undecorated by any sort of cravet. His tun 
of a torso bulged roundly out in front of me like the spon- 
son of a battleship. Stretched across the immense waist¬ 
coat was a round, spirally-fluted horsehair watchguard 
as big as a rope, with massive golden fastenings; and sus¬ 
pended from it was a golden steer made by some artifi¬ 
cer who had followed Cellini afar off, if at all, and which 
gave the area (one must use geographical terms in 


252 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


describing the man), an auriferous and opulent appear¬ 
ance. 

His trousers were spotted with the stains of stables; 
and his huge boots, like barges, had similar discolorations 
overlaying a brilliant shine. He carried one of those 
heavy white sticks with which the drovers and dealers 
at the Sioux City stockyards poke the live stock and take 
the liberties accorded to prospective purchasers with pigs 
and bullocks. On the crook of this he rested his great 
hands, one piled upon the other, and stared, as if fasci¬ 
nated by them, at four soldiers returning from service in 
the Philippines, who had two seats turned together, and 
were making a gleeful function of their midday meal, 
startling the South Dakota atmosphere with the loud 
use of strange-sounding expressions in Tagalog and 
Spanish, and, with military brutality, laughing at the 
dying struggles of a fellow-man being slowly pressed to 
death under that human landslide. I resented their 
making light of such a subject. 

My oppressor stared at them with a grim and un¬ 
wavering gaze that finally seemed to put them out and 
set them ill at ease; for they became so quiet that we 
could hear noises other than theirs. Once in a while, 
however, they winked at me to show their appreciation 
of my agonies, and made remarks about the water-cure 
and the like, meant for my ears. My incubus seemed not 
to hear a word of this badinage. I wondered if he were 
not deaf, or a little wrong in his intellect. The train 
stopped at a little station just as I had become quite 
desperate, and two men sitting in front of us got off. 
With the superhuman strength of the last gasp I surged 
under my tormentor—and he noticed me. I verily be¬ 
lieve that until that instant he had not known of my 
presence; he gave such a deliberate sort of start. 

44 Excuse me!” said he. *‘Forgot they was any one 
here—let me fix you! ’ 9 

He had already almost done so; but he meant well. 
He rose to take the vacated seat; but with a glance at 
the soldiers he threw the back over, turned his back to 


HERBERT QUICK 


253 


them and his face to me, and sat down. His ponderous 
feet like valises rested on each side of mine, his body 
filled the seat from arm to arm. For a while, even after 
discovering me, he stared past me as if I had been quite 
invisible. I saw a beady perspiration on his brow as 
if he were under some great stress of feeling. It was 
getting uncanny. I understood now how the soldiers, 
now breaking forth into riot again, had been suppressed 
by that stony regard. When he spoke, however, it was 
in commonplaces. 

‘‘They’re lots of ’em cornin’ back,” said he. 

A slow thrust of the bulky thumb over his shoulder 
indicated that he meant soldiers. I nodded assent. A 
great many were returning just then. 

“Jack’s come back,” said he; “quite a while.” 

His voice was in harmony with his physique—deep, 
heavy, rough. Raised in rage it might have matched 
the intonations of Stentor, and terrified a thousand foes; 
for it was a phenomenal voice. The rumble of the train 
was a piping treble compared with it. 

‘‘You don’t know Jack, do yeh?” he asked. 

“I think not,” said I. 

‘ ‘ Course not, ’ ’ he replied. ‘ ‘ Fool question! An ’ yit, 
he used to know most of you fellers. ’ ’ 

I wondered just what he might mean by “you fel¬ 
lows,” but he was silent again. 

“You don’t live near here,” he stated at last. 

“No,” said I. ‘‘I am just passing through.” 

“If you lived in these parts,” said he, “you’d know 
him. ” 

“I dare say,” I replied. “ Who is Jack?” 

I was a little piqued at his rudeness: for he return¬ 
ed no reply. Then I saw that he was gazing into vacancy 
again so absently that I should have pronounced his case 
one of mental trouble if his appearance had not been so 
purely physical. He took from a cigar-case a big, dark, 
massive cigar, clubhouse shape like himself, gave it to me 
and lighted the twin of it. I thought myself entitled to 
reparation for his maltreatment of me, and, seeing that 


254 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

it was a good cigar, I took it. As for any further con¬ 
verse, I had given that up, when there rumbled forth 
from him a soliloquy rather than a story. He appeared 
to have very little perception of me as an auditor. I 
think now that he must have been in great need of some 
one to whom he might talk, and that his relations to those 
about him forbade any outpouring of expression. He 
seemed all the time in the attitude of repelling attack. He 
did not move, save as he applied the cigar to his lips or 
took it away; and his great voice rolled forth in subdued 
thunder. 

“I’ve got four sections of ground,” said he, “right 

by the track.Show you the place wdien we go 

through. Of course I’ve got a lot of other truck scatter¬ 


ed around.Land at the right figger you’ve got to 

buy—got to.But when I hadn’t but the four sec¬ 


tions—one section overruns so they’s a little over twen¬ 
ty-six hundred acres—I thought ’twas about the checker 

f’r a man with three boys.One f’r each o’ them, 

you understand, and’ the home place f’r mother if any¬ 
thing happened.Mother done jest as much to help 

git the start as I did.Plumb as much—if not more. 

“Tom an’ Wallace is good boys—none better. I’d 
about as quick trust either of ’em to run the place as to 
trust myself.” 

There was a candid self-esteem in the word “about” 
and his emphasis on it. 

“I sent Wallace,” he resumed, “into a yard of feed¬ 
ers in Montana to pick out a trainload of tops with a 
brush and paint-pot, an’ I couldn’t ‘a’ got a hundred 
dollars better deal if I’d spotted ’em myself. . .. That’s 
goin’ some f’r a kid not twenty-five. Wallace knows crit¬ 
ters ....f’r a boy.... mighty well.An ’ Tom’s got a 

way of handlin’ land to get the last ten bushel of corn 
to the acre that beats me with all my experience. .. These 
colleges where they study them things do some good, I 
s’pose; but it’s gumption, an’ not schoolin’, that makes 

boys like Tom an’ Wallace.They’re all right. 

They’d ’a’ made good anyhow.” 






HERBERT QUICK 


255 


I could feel an invidious comparison between Tom 
and Wallace, of whom he spoke with such laudatory em¬ 
phasis, and some one else whom I suspected to be the 
Jack who had come back from the Philippines; and his 
next utterance proved this instinctive estimate of the 
situation to be correct. He went on, slower than before, 
with long pauses in which he seemed lost in thought, and 
in some of which I gave up, without much regret, I con¬ 
fess, the idea of ever hearing more of Jack or his broth¬ 
ers. 

‘‘Jack was always mother’s boy,” said he. “Moth¬ 
er ’s boy... you know how it is. ... Make beds, an ’ dust, 

an’ play the pianah, an’ look after the flowers!. 

Wasn’t bigger’n nothin’, either.Girl, I always 

thought, by good rights. I remember.... mother wanted 

him to be a girl.She was on the square with the 

children.... but if any boy got a shade the best of it 

anywhere along the line, it was Jack.I don’t guess 

Tom an’ Wallace ever noticed; but maybe Jack got a 
leetle the soft side of things from mother. ... Still, she’s 
al’avs been dumbed square. 

“I seen as soon as he got old enough to take holt, an’ 
didn’t, that he wasn’t wuth a cuss. . .Never told moth¬ 
er, an’ never let on to the boys; but I could see he was 
no good, Jack wasn’t. . . . Some never owns up when it’s 
their own folks. .. .but what’s the use lyin’?... .Hed to 
hev a swaller-tail coat, an’ joined a ‘country club’ down 
to town—an ’ him a-livin ’ in the middle of a strip o ’ coun¬ 
try a mile wide an’ four long, wuth a hundred dollars an 
acre... .all our’n... .goin’ out in short pants to knock 
them little balls around that cost six bits apiece. I didn’t 
let myself care much about it; but ‘country club ’!— 
Hell!” 

He had visualized for me the young fellow unfitted 
to his surroundings, designed on a scale smaller than the 
sons of Anak about him, deft in little things, finical in 
dress, fond of the leisure and culture of the club, op¬ 
pressed with the roughnesses and vastnesses about his 
father’s farms, too tender for the wild winds and burn- 







256 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


ing suns, with nerves attuned to music and art rather 
than to the crushing of obstacles and the defeat of tasks: 
and all the while the image of “mother” brooded over 
him. All this was vividly in the picture—very vividly, 
considering the unskilful brush with which it had been 
limned—but just as it began to appeal to me, Anak fell 
quiescent. 

“I never thought he was anything wuss than wuth- 
less, ’ ’ he went on, at last, ‘ ‘ till he come to me to git some 

money he’d lost at this here club. Thirty-seven 

dollars an’ fifty cents. . . Gamblin’. . . I told him 

not by a damned sight; an’ he cried—cried like a baby. 
. . I’d ‘a’ seen him jugged ’fore I’d ‘a’ give him 

thirty-seven fifty of my good money lost that way. . . 

Not me. . . Wallace give him the money f’r his shot¬ 
gun. . . An’ mother—she al’ays knowed when Jack 

had one o’ his girl-cryin’ fits—she used to go up after 
Jack come in them nights, an’ when he got asleep so he 
wouldn’t know it she’d go in and kiss him. . . Watch¬ 
ed and ketched her at it, but never let on. . . She run 

down bad—gittin’ up before daylight an’ broke of her 
rest like that. . . I started in oncet to tell her he was 

no good, but I jest couldn’t. ..v.... .Turned it off on a 
hoss by the name o’ Jack we had, an’ sold him to make 
good f’r twenty-five dollars less’n he was wuth, ruther’n 
tell her what I started to. . . She loved that wuthless 

boy, neighbor—there ain’t no use denyin’ it, she did love 
him. ’ ’ 

He paused a long while, either to ponder on the 
strange infatuation of “mother” for “Jack” or to al¬ 
low me to digest his statement. A dog—one of the 
shaggy, brown enthusiasts that chase trains—ran along 
by the cars until distanced, and then went back w r ag- 
ging his tail as if he had expelled from the neighbor¬ 
hood some noxious trespasser—as he may have conceived 
himself to have done. Goliath watched him with great 
apparent interest. 

“Collie,” said he, at last. “Know anything about 
collies? Funny dogs! Lick one of ’em oncet an’ he’s 





HERBERT QUICK 


257 


never no good any more. . . All kind o’ shruvle up 

by lickin’ they’re that tender-hearted. . . Five year 

ago this fall Tom spiled a fifty-dollar pedigreed collie by 
jest slappin’ his ears an’ jawin’ him. . . Some crit¬ 
ters is like that. . . Jack . . was!” 

He faltered here, and then flamed out into pugnac¬ 
ity, squaring his huge jaw as if I had accused him— 
as I did in my heart, I suspect. 

‘ ‘ But the dog, ’ ’ he rumbled, ‘ ‘ was wuth somethin ’— 
Jack never was. . . Cryin’ around for thirty-seven 

fifty! . . Talkin’ o’ debts o’ honor! . . That 

showed me plain enough he wasn’t wuth botherin’ with. 
. . Got his mother to come an’ ask f’r an allowance o’ 

money—so much a month. . . Ever hear of such a 

thing? An’ him not turnin’ his hand to a lick of work 
except around the house helpin’ mother. . . Tom and 

Wallace had quite a little start in live stock by this time, 
an’ money in bank. . . Jack bed the same lay, but he 

fooled his away—fooled it away.Broke flat all the 

time, an’ wantin’ an allowance. . . Mother said the 

young sprouts at the club had allowances.an’ he 

read in books that laid around the house about fellers in 
England an’ them places havin’ allowances an’ debts of 
honor. . . Mother seemed to think one while that we 

w'as well enough off so we could let Jack live like the fel¬ 
lers in the books. . . He lived more in them books than 

he did in South Dakoty, an’ talked book lingo all the time. 
. . . Mother soon seen she was wrong. 

“She was some hurt b’cause I talked to the neigh¬ 
bors about Jack bein’ plumb no good. . . I don’t 

know who told her. . . I didn’t want the neighbors 

to think I was fooled by him. . . I never said noth¬ 
ing to mother, though. . . She couldn’t f’rgit thet he 

wms her boy, an’ she kep’ on lovin’ him. . . Nobody 

orto blame her much f’r that, no matter what he done. 
You know how it is with women. 

“One time purty soon after the thirty-seven fifty 
deal a bad check f’r two hundred come into my bundle 
o’ cancelled vouchers at the bank, an’ I knowed in a min- 



2J)8 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

ute who’d done it. . . Jack had been walkin’ the 

floor nights f’r quite a spell, an’ his eyes looked like a 
heifer’s that’s lost her calf. . . He hed a sweetheart 

in town. . . Gal from the East . . big an’ dark 

an’ strong enough to take Jack up and spank him. . . 

It was her brother Jack had lost the money to. Jack 
jest wrote my name on a check—never tried to imitate 
my fist much—an’ the bank paid it. . . When I come 

home a-lookin’ the way a man does that’s been done that 
way by a boy o’ his’n, mother told me Jack was gone, 
an ’ handed me a letter he left f ’r me. . I never read it. 
. . . Went out to the barn so mother wouldn’t see me, 

and tore it up. . . I’d ‘a’ been damned before I’d ‘a’ 

read it! ” 

He gloomed out over my head in an expressionless 
way that aroused all the curiosity I am capable of feel¬ 
ing as to the actual workings of another’s mind. He 
seemed to be under the impression that he had said a 
great many things in the pause that ensued; or he re¬ 
garded my understanding as of small importance; for 
he recommenced at a point far advanced in his narra¬ 
tive. 

“—‘N’ finely,” said he very calmly, “we thought 
she was goin’ to die. I asked the doctor what we could 
do, an’ he told me what. . . Knowed all the boys 

since he helped ’em into the world, you know—a friend 
more’n a doctor—an’ he allowed it was Jack she was pin¬ 
in’ f’r. So I goes to her, a-layin’ in bed as white as a 
sheet, an’ I says, ‘Mother, if they’s anything you want, 
you can hev it, if it’s on earth, no matter how no-count 
I think it is! ’ . . A feller mjakes a dumb fool of him¬ 

self such times, neighbor; but mother was good goods 
when we was poor an’ young—any one of the neighbors 
can swear to that . . she looks up at me . . an’ 

whispers low. . . ‘Go an’ find him!’. . . An’ I 

went. 

“I knowed purty nigh where to look. I went to 
Chicago. He’d dropped clean down to the bottom, 
neighbor. . . Playin’ a pianah . . f’r his board 


HERBERT QUICK 


259 


and lodgin’ an’ beer . . in . . in a beer hall.” 

I was quite sure, he paused so long, that he had told 
all he had to narrate of this history of the boy who could 
not stand punishment, and was so much like a collie; 
and I knew from the maner in which he had lapsed into 
silence, more than from what he had said, what a dark 
passage it was. 

“Well,” he resumed finally, “I hed my hands 
spread to strangle him right there. . . I could ‘a’ 

done it all right—he was that peaked an’ little. . . 

He wouldn’t ‘a’ weighed more’n a hundred an’ fifty— 
and my son! . . . I could ‘ a ’ squushed the life out 

of him with my hands—an’ it was all right ef I had. 

. . . You bet it was! . . . Not that I cared f’r 

the two hundred dollars. I could spare that all right. 

I’ll lose that much on a fair proposition any time. . . 

But to take that thing back to mother from where I 
picked it from! 

“I reckon I was ruther more gentle with Jack goin’ 
home than I ever w r as before. . . I hed to be. They 

was no way out of it except to be easy with him—‘r lam 
the life out of him an’ take him home on a cot. . . 

an’ mother needed him in runnin’ order. So I got him 
clothes, an’ had him bathed, an’ he got shaved as he used 
to be—he had growed a beard—an ’ I rode in one car and 
him in another. . . When mother seed him, her an’ 

him cried together f’r I suppose it might have been two 
hours’r two and a quarter, off an’ on, an’ whispered to¬ 
gether, an’ then she went to sleep lioldin’ his hand, an’ 
begun to pick up, an’ Jack went back to his own ways 
and the rest of us to our’n, an’ it was wuss than ever. 
. . . An’ when he sold a team o’ mine and skipped 

ag’in, I was glad, I tell you, to be shet of him. . . . 

An’ they could do the mile to the pole in twenty, slick 
as mice. 

“Next time mother an’ Wallace went and got him. . 
. . . Mother found out some way that he was dyin’ 

in a horsepittle in Minnapolis.He claimed 

he’d been workin’ f’r a real estate firm; but I had the 


260 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


thing looked up. . . . an 7 I couldn’t find where 

any of our namje had done nothing. . . . An 7 it 

seemed as ef we’d never git shet of him. . . . That 

sounds hard; but he was a kind of a disease by this time 
—a chronic, awful painful, worryin 7 disease, like con¬ 
sumption. . . . An 7 we couldn’t git cured o’ him, 

an’ we couldn’t die. ... It was kind o’ tough. He 
moped around, an’ mother had some kind o’ promise 
out of him that he wouldn’t leave her no more, an 7 he 
was pleadin 7 with her to let him go, an 7 Tom an 7 Wal¬ 
lace an 7 me never sayin 7 a word to him, when this here 
Philippine War broke out. . . . You know what it’s 

about, I never did . . . an 7 Jack wanted to enlist. 

“I can’t let him go, 77 says mother. 

“Let him go,” says I. “If he’ll go, let him!” 

“Mother looks at me whiter 7 n I ever expect to see 
her again but once, maybe; an 7 the next morning she an 7 
Jack goes to the county seat an’ Jack enlists. I went 
down when the rig’ment was all got together. Mother 
and me always hed a place where we kep 7 all the money 
that was in the house, as much her’n as mine, an 7 she 
took five twenty-dollar gold pieces out of the pile, an 7 
sewed ’em in a chamois-skin bag all wet with her cryin 7 
. . . an 7 never sayin 7 a word. . . an’ she hangs 

it round his neck an’ hung to him an’ kissed him till it 
sorto bothered the boss of the rig’ment—some kind of 
colonel—because he wanted the men to march, you 
know, an’ didn’t seem to like to make mother fall back. 
She seemed to see how it was finely an 7 fell back an 7 this 
colonel made the motion to her with his sword they do 
to their superiors, an’ they marched. . . Jack stood 

straighter than any one in the line, an 7 he had a new 
sort of look to him. He everidged up purty good, too, 
in hithe. . . I don’t see much to this soldier business. 

. . . Maybe that’s why he looked the part so well. 

. . . I give the captain a hundred f’r him. . . . 

Jack sent it back from a place called Sanfrisco, with¬ 
out a word. ‘So much saved! 7 says I. He was wuth- 
less as ever.” 


HERBERT QUICK 


261 


The immense voice labored, broke, stopped—the 
man seemed weary and overcome. To afford him an 
escape from the story that seemed to have mastered him, 
like the Ancient Mariner’s, I called his attention to what 
the four soldiers were doing. They had dressed as if 
for inspection, and were evidently going out upon the 
platform. The noticeable thing in their appearance was 
the change in their expressions from the hilarity and 
riotousness of a few minutes ago, to a certain solemnity. 
One of then caried a little box carefully wrapped up, 
as a devotee might carry an offering to a shrine. The 
huge farmer glanced casually at them as if with full 
knowledge of what they were doing, and, ignoring my 
interruption, seemed to resume his monologue—as might 
the habitue of a temple pass by the question of a strang¬ 
er concerning a matter related to the mysteries—some¬ 
thing not to be discussed, difficult to be explained, or 
not worth mention. He pointed out of the window. 

‘ r Our land,” said he; “both sides . . . tiptop 

good ground. . . Didn’t look much like this w r hen 

mother an’ me homesteaded the first quartersection. 
. . . See that bunch of box-elders? Me an’ her 

camped there as we druv in . . . never cut ’em 

down. . . Spoil an acre of good corn land, too; to 

say nothin’ o’ the time wasted cultivatin’ ’round them. 
. . . Well, a man’s a fool about some things!” 

It was a picture of fulsome plenty and riotous 
fertility. Straight as the stretched cord by which they 
had been dropped ran the soldierly rows of corn, a mile 
along, their dark blades outstretched in the unwaver¬ 
ing prairie wind, as if pointing us on to something note¬ 
worthy or mysterious beyond. Back and forth along 
the rows plodded the heavy teams of the cultivators, 
stirring the brown earth to a deeper brownness. High 
fences of woven wire divided the spacious fields. On a 
hundred-acre meadow, as square and level as a billiard 
table, were piled the dark cocks of a second crop of 
alfalfa. One, two, three farmsteads we passed, each 
with its white house hidden in trees, its big red barns, 


262 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

its low hog-houses, its feed yards, with their racks pol¬ 
ished by the soft necks of feasting steers. And every¬ 
where was the corn—the golden corn of last year in 
huge cribs like barracks; the emerald hosts of the new 
crop in its ranks like green-suited lines-of-battle ar¬ 
rested in full career and held as by some spell, leaning 
onward in act of marching, every quivering sword 
pointing mysteriously forward. My heart of a farmer 
swelled within me at the scene, which had something in it 
akin to its owner, it was so huge, so opulent, so illimit¬ 
able. Somehow, it seemed to interpret him to me. 

“Purty good little places,’’ said he; “but the home 
place skins ’em all. We’ll be to it in a minute. Train 
slows up f’r a piece o’ new track work. We’ll git a 
good view of it.” 

Heaving himself up, he went before me down the 
aisle of the slowing train. There stood the soldiers on 
the steps and the platform. We took our places back 
of them. I was absorbed in the study of the splendid 
farm, redeemed from the lost wilderness by this man 
who had all at once become worth while to me. Back 
at the rear of the near-by fields was a row of lofty cot¬ 
ton-woods, waving their high crests in the steady wind. 
All about the central grove were pastures, meadows, 
gardens, and orchards. A dense coppice of red cedars 
enclosed on three sides a big feed-yard, in which, stuffing 
themselves on corn and alfalfa, or lying in the dusty 
straw, were grouped a hundred bovine aristocrats in 
stately unconcern of the rotund Poland-Chinas about 
them. In the pastures were colts as huge as dray- 
horses, shaking the earth in their clumsy play. There 
were barns and barns and barns—capacious red struc¬ 
tures, with hay-forks rigged under their projecting 
gables; and, in the midst of all this foison, stood the 
house—square, roomy, of red brick, with a broad porch 
on two sides covered with climbing roses and vines. 

On this veranda was a thing that looked like a 
Morris chair holding a figure clad in khaki. A stooped, 
slender, white-haired woman hovered about the chair; 


HERBERT QUICK 


263 


and down by the track, as if to view the passing train, 
stood a young woman, who was tall and swarthy and 
of ample proportions. Her dress was artistically 
adapted to country wear; she looked well-groomed and 
finished. She was smiling as the train drew slowly 
past, but I was sure that her eyes were full of tears. 
I wondered why she looked with such intentness at the 
platform—until I saw what the soldiers were doing. 
They stood at attention, their hands to their service- 
hats, stiff, erect, military. The girl returned the salute, 
and pointed to the chair on the veranda, put her hand¬ 
kerchief to her eyes, and shook her head as if in apology 
for the man in khaki. And while she stood thus the 
man in khaki leaned forward in the Morris chair, laid 
hold of the column of the veranda, pulled himself to his 
feet, staggered forward a step, balanced himself as if 
with difficulty, and—saluted. 

The soldiers on the platform swung their hats and 
cheered, and I joined in the cheer. One of the good 
fellows wiped his eyes. The big farmer stood partly 
inside the door, effectually blocking it, and quite out of 
the girl’s sight, looking on, as impassive as a cliff. The 
pretty young woman picked up a parcel—the offering— 
which one of the soldiers tossed to her feet, looked after 
us smiling and waving her handkerchief, and ran back 
toward the house. The train picked up speed and 
whisked us out of sight just as the khaki man sank back 
into the chair, eased down by the woman with the white 
hair. I seemed to have seen a death. 

“That was mother,” said the man of the broad 
farms, as we resumed our seats—“mother and Jack 
. . . jest as it always has been. . . Al’ays moth¬ 
er’s boy. . . The soldiers cornin’ from the war al¬ 
’ays stand on the platform as they go by—if they’s 
room enough—with their fingers to their hats in that 
fool way. . . All seem to know where Jack is some¬ 
way, no matter what rig’ment they belong to. . . . 

Humph! 

“It’s something he done in the Philippines . . . 


264 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

in the islands. ... I don’t know where they are. 
. . . Off Spain way, I guess. . . They’s a kind 

of yellow nigger there, an’ Jack seemed to do well fight- 
in’ ’em. . . They’re little fellers something like his 

size, you know. . . Some high officer ordered him to 

take a nigger king on an island once; an’ as I under¬ 
stand it, the niggers was too many f’r his gang o’ 
soldiers. So Jack went alone an’ took him right out of 
his own camp. . . I reckon any one could ‘a’ done 

the same thing with Uncle Sam backin’ him; but the 
president, ’r congress, ’r the secretary of war thought 
it was quite a trick. . . I s’pose Jack’s shootin’ a nig¬ 

ger officer right under the king’s nose made it a better 
grandstand play. . . Anyhow, Jack went out a pri¬ 

vate, an’ come back a captain; an’ every soldier that 
rides these cars salutes as he passes the house, whuther 
Jack’s in sight ’r not. . . . Funny! . . . All 

kinds o ’ folks to make a world! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Then, ’ ’ said I, for I kneiv the story of course when 
he mentioned the circumstances, “your son Jack is Cap¬ 
tain John Hawes?” 

He nodded slowly, without looking at me. 

“And that beautiful, strong girl?” I inquired. 

“Jack’s wife,” said he. “All right to look at, ain’t 
she? Lived in New York . . . ’r Boston, I f’rgit 

which. . . Folks well fixed. . . Met Jack in San- 

frisco and married him when he couldn’t lift his hand 
to his head. . . . She’d make a good farm woman. 

. . . Good stuff in her. . . What ails him? Some 
kind o’ poison that was in the knife the nigger soaked 
him with when he took that there king. . . . Stab¬ 
bed Jack jest before Jack shot. . . . Foolish to let 

him git in so dost; but Jack never had no decision. . . 
Al’ays whifflin’ around. . . If he pulls through, 
though, the girl’ll make a man of him! if an}Thing kin. 

. . . She thinks he’s all right now . . . proud 

of him as Chloe of a yaller dress. . . Went to San- 

frisco when he was broke and dyin’, they thought, an’ 
all that, an’ begged him as an honor to let her bear his 


HERBERT QUICK 


265 


name an’ nuss him. . . And she knew how wnthless 

he was before the war, an’ thro wed him over. . . . 

Sensible girl . . . then. . . I—” 

He was gazing at nothing again, and I thought the 
story ended, when he began on an entirely new subject, 
as it seemed to me, until the relation appeared. 

“Religion,” said he, “is something I don’t take no 
stock in, an’ never did. . . Religious folks don’t 
seem any better than the rest. . . But mother al’ays 
set a heap by religion. . . I al’ays paid my dues in 

the church and called it square. . . May be some¬ 

thing in it f ’r some, but not f’r me. I got to hev some¬ 
thing I kin git a-holt of. . . 

“Al’ays looked a good deal like graft to me. . . 

but I pay as much as any one in the congregation, an’ 
maybe a leetle more—it pleases mother. . . An’ so 

Jack’s gittin’ religion. . . Got it, all right. . . . 
Pleases mother, too. . . . Immense! . . . But I 
don’t take no stock in it.” 

“The doc says he’s bad off.” 

I had not asked the question; but he seemed to feel 
a necessary inquiry in the tableau I had seen. 

“He used to come down to the track when he first 
got back an’ perform that fool trick with his hand to 
his hat when the soldiers went by an’ they let him know. 

. . . Too weak, now; . . . failin’. . . Girl’s 

al’ays there, though, when she knows. . . Kind o’ 

hope he’ll—he’ll. . . You know, neighbor, from 

what ’ she’s done fer him, how mother must love him!” 

We had come to the end of his journey, now—a 
little country station—and he left the train without a 
word to me or a backward look, his huge hat drawn 
down over his eyes. I felt that I had seen a curious, 
dark, dramatic, badly-drawn, wildly-conceived and 
Dantesque painting. He climbed into a carriage which 
stood by the platform, and to which was harnessed a 
pair of magnificent coach-bred horses which plunged and 
reared fearfully as the train swept into the station, and 
were held, easily and by main strength, like dogs or 


266 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

sheep, by a giant in the conveyance who must have been 
Tom or Wallace. From time to time, the steeds gath¬ 
ered their feet together, trampled the earth in terror, 
and then surged on the bits. The giant never deigned 
even to look at them. He held the lines, stiff as iron 
straps, in one hand, took his father’s bag in the other, 
threw the big horses to the right by a cruel wrench of 
the lines to make room for his father to climb in, which 
he did without a word. As the springs went down 
under the weight the horses dashed away like the wind, 
the young man guiding them by that iron right hand 
with facile horsemanship, and looking, not at the road, 
but at his father. As they passed out of sight the father 
of Captain Hawes turned, looked at me, and waved his 
hand. I thought I had seen him for the last time, and 
went back to get the story from the soldiers. 

“It wasn’t so much the way he brought the datto 
into camp,” said one of them, “or the way he always' 
worked his way to the last bally front peak of the fight¬ 
ing line. It takes a guy with guts to do them things; 
but that goes with the game—understand? But he 
knew more’n anybody in the regiment about keepin’ 
well. He made the boys take care of themselves. When 
a man is lay in’ awake scheming to keep the men busy 
and healthy, there’s always a job for him. . . And 

he had a way of making the boys keep their promises. 

. . . And he’s come home to die, and leave that girl 

of his—and all the chances he’s had in a business wav 
if he wants to leave the army. It don’t seem right! 
The boys say the President has invited him to lunch; 
and he’s got sugar-plantation and minin’ jobs open to 
him till you can’t rest, . . And to be done by a cussed 

poison Moro kris! But he got Mr. Moro—played 
even; an’ that’s as good as a man can ask, I guess. Hell, 
how slow this train goes!” 

As I have said, I never expected to see my big 
farmer again; but I did. I completed my business; re¬ 
turned the way I came, passed the great farm after dusk, 
and the next morning was in the city where I first saw 


HERBERT QUICK 


26 ? 


him. Looking ahead as I passed along the street I 
noticed, towering above every form, and moving in the 
press like a three-horse van among baby carriages, the 
vast bulk of the captain’s father. He turned aside in¬ 
to a marble-cutter’s yard, and stood, looking at the 
memorial monuments which quite filled it until it look¬ 
ed like a cemetery vastly overplanted. I felt disposed 
to renew our acquaintance, and spoke to him. He of¬ 
fered me his hand, and when I accepted it he stood cling¬ 
ing to mine, standing a little stooped, the eyes blood¬ 
shot, the iron mouth pitifully drooped at the corners, 
the whole man reminding me of a towering cliff shaken 
by an earthquake, but mighty and imposing still. He 
held a paper in his free hand, which he examined close¬ 
ly while retaining the handclasp, and in a way I had 
come to expect of him, he commenced in the midst of his 
thought and without verbal salutation. 

“We’ve buried Jack!” said he. 

“I’m deeply sorry!’’ said I. 

“Well,” said he, “maybe it’s just as well. . . . 

He was . . . you know! . . . But mother takes 
it hard—hard! . . . I’m contractin’ f ’r a tombstun. 

.He wanted to see me ... at the 1 ast. 

. £ Dad’, says he, jest as he used to when he was 

. . . was a little feller, ... ‘I want you to for¬ 
give me before I die. . . It’s a big country where 

I’m going, . . . an’ . . . you and I may never 
run into each other—so forgive me! Mother ’ll find me 
—wherever I go . . . but you, Dad, . . . for 

fear it’s our last chance, let’s square up now!’ . . . 

I I ” 

He went out among the stones and seemed to be 
looking the stock over. Presently, he returned and 
showed me the paper. It was what a printer wmild 
call “copy” for an inscription—the name, the dates, the 
age of Captain John Hawes—severe, laconic. At the 
bottom were two or three lines scrawled in a heavy, 
ponderous hand, with a half-inch lead of a lumber pen¬ 
cil. Only one fist could produce that Polyphemus chirog- 




268 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 
rapky. 

“He went out a private it read, “and came back 
a captain .” And then as if by afterthought, and in 
huge capitals, came the line: “And died a Christian 

“Is that all right?” he asked. “Is the spellin’ 
all right? ... I don’t care much about this soldier 
business . . . an’ the Christian game . . don’t 

interest me ... a little bit, . . . but, neigh¬ 
bor, you don’t know how that’ll please mother! ‘Died 
a Christian! ’ ... Someway . . . mother 
. . . always loved Jack!” 

At the turning of the street I looked and saw the 
last scene of the drama—one that will play itself be¬ 
fore me from time to time in retrospect forever. The 
great, unhewn, mountainous block was still there, stand¬ 
ing among his more shapely and polished brother stones, 
a human monolith, the poor, pitiful paper in his trem¬ 
bling hand. 


EDWARD BENNINGHAUS KENNA 


E dward Benninghaus Kenna, son of Senator John 
E. Kenna and Anna Benninghaus Kenna, was born 
in Charleston, West Virginia, October 10, 1877. 
He received his education at St. Mary’s College, Mary¬ 
land and at Georgetown University. He taught English 
and elocution for a time at the Horner Military School, 
Oxford, North Carolina. Later he took a course in law 
in West Virginia University. 

He was a contributor to The New York Sun, The 
New York Herald, The Century, and Donahue’s Maga¬ 
zine. In 1902, he published “Lyrics of the Hills,” a 
book of verse that was very favorably received. His 
poems have a smoothness of rhythm and a beauty of 
expression that have been seldom surpassed by any 
American poet. What promised to be a literary career 
of rare achievement was cut short by the death of Mr. 
Kenna in 1912. 

In 1913, a collection of his poems was published in 
a volume entitled “Songs of the Open Air and Other 
Poems.” 


INSPIRATION 

A thought from God’s great heart of love 
Pell to this world of wrong; 

A poet made this thought his own, 

And breathed it forth in song. 

A SONG OP THE OPEN AIR 

Most poets sing of the sweets of love, 

The love lit eyes of ladies fair, 

The perfect bliss of the clinging kiss— 

I sing the joy of the open air! 

269 


270 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


I sing of the joys of wood and field 
And the heart’s own pleasures, the forest 
yield, 

The perfect joy of the open air! 

So it’s hey for the forest, the stream and 
sea,— 

The life of a rover’s the life for me! 

With rod and gun, ’neath the autumn sun, 

Boys of the woodland, life is fun! 

To follow with oak and birch and pine, 

To tent in the shade of a wild grapevine, 

To smell the breath of the damp brown earth, 
To hear the rustle of lisping leaves, 

Gives the hopes of a tired heart new birth, 

Is a balm for the pain of the one who grieves! 
So it’s hey for the noontide or sunsets fair, 
Bright star-lit nights or the pale moon’s glare, 
Now or then, whenever or where, 

It’s hey for the joy of the open air! 

I sing not the song of the work of man, 

Be it music, or poem, or painting rare— 

My song’s of the sod, the work of God, 

And the perfect joy of the open air. 

I sing the song of that beacon star 
That lights the mariner o’er the bar, 

When the wind is high and the sailors dare. 

So it’s hey for the primal joys of man, 

The joys that are to God’s own plan— 

The woodland air is a perfumed prayer 
To Him who made the woodlands fair, 

To Him who wills the breeze to blow, 

The birds to sing, the brooks to flow, 

Whose name is writ on the mountain’s crest, 
Whose love is hid in the bluebell’s breast, 

And glints in the light of the bright sun’s beams. 
So it’s hey for the noon-tide or sunsets fair, 

The glory of God is written there, 

Now or then, whenever or where, 

It’s hey for the joy of the open air. 


EDWARD BENNINGHAUS KENNA 


271 


JOY O’ THE WORLD 

There’s a laugh in the lilt of the breeze, 
There’s a smile on the face of the moon, 

And the rain as it whips through the trees 
Stifles a jubilant croon. 

There’s joy in the tint of the hills, 
Though they are sombre and brown, 

And the murmur of happiness thrills 
In the noise of the wicked old town. 

Angels have peopled the world, 

Sadness has vanished away, 

And the light of love has unfurled 
Its gleam in my heart today. 

How can the world be sad? 

Sickness? Death? What are they? 

Content could I die, ’tis not bad 
If you and your love do but pray. 

God would refuse you no boon, 

Girl with the woman’s heart, 

And your prayer, soul of mine, soon 
Would unite us never to part. 

Fire of the flesh in your lips! 

Cool of the soul in your eyes! 

A kiss, earth’s bliss I sip, 

A glance, I quaff paradise! 

Love you? As mother loves child, 
Tender, protectingly. Yes, 

As comrades lost in the wild 

The friendship of true men bless! 

So dear, I love you, true, 

Quicker of heaven I’d tire, 

For the best of heaven is you, 

You, the soul of desire. 


272 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


You with your eyes, you have told, 

You with your lips have said ‘‘Yes!” 
And I, as God’s glories unfold, 

I, I worship and bless. 

Blurred are the dreams that I dream, 
Blurred but clear is my love, 

Till in ecstasy, dear, I could scream 
To the brooding stars above. 

That the joy which my heart has known, 
The joy that the world has missed, 

By your woman's heart was sown, 

Through your lips that I have kissed. 

Yea! A laugh in the lilt of the breeze, 

A smile on the face of the moon, 

And the rain as it whips through the trees, 
Stifles a jubilant croon. 

Angels have peopled the world, 

Sadness has faded away, 

And the glory of love has unfurled, 

In happy hearts today. 

IIOW CAN I, LORD? 

How can I, Lord, forget your love 
When every breeze that sighs above 
Is fraught with perfume sweet and rare 
To breathe to you an endless prayer? 
How can I, Lord, forget your wrath 
"When written on the planet’s path 
Through endless space with pen of light 
I read your name upon the night? 

How can I, Lord? But yet I do. 

Despite the breeze’s prayer to you, 
Despite the world athwart the blue, 
Forget, 0 God, I do, I do. 


EDWARD BENNINGHAUS KENNA 


273 


How can I, Lord, forget your power, 
When in the heart of every flower 
So dainty, sweet and fair of hue, 

I read a mystic word of you? 

How can I, Lord, for mercy hope, 
When in these darkened ways I grope, 
How can I hope your love to win, 
Deep groveling in the filth of sin? 
How can I, Lord? But yet I do. 

A worthless word, a heart untrue, 
Are all, 0 God, I bring to you, 

But hope for mercy, Lord, I do! 

I WANT TO GO A-FISHING 

I want to go a-fishing, 

There is no fun in town. 

I’m sitting here a-wishing 
To see waters rushing down 
The riffles of a trout stream 
Or where the black bass lurk, 

I want to go a-fishing 
Spring is no time for work. 

I want to go a-fishing 
And I’m going—if I lose— 

For the sound of trees a-swishing 
Surely does give me the blues 
When I can’t get to the country, 
Where the dancing waters lie, 
Singing love songs to the mountains, 
And coquetting with the sky. 

I long to hear a reel sing, 

See the scales shine as he leaps, 

Like a reindeer longs for sea-tide 

When spring time onward creeps; 
And the reindeer seeks the ocean 
And I’m going to seek the stream 


274 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Where the waters sing of happiness 
Like heaven in a dream. 

I want to go a-fishing 
And say, old man, don’t you? 

Ain’t your hungry heart a-wishing 
For the woods and waters too? 

Don’t you feel a fellow feeling 
With the trifling little boy, 

Who truants with his pawpaw pole 
To the water’s primal joy? 

There is something in this yearning 
Of just this time of year— 

That is wisdom, not of learning, 

But its lesson is as clear, 

And the truth that life is precious 
To the honest angler’s heart, 

When springtime buds are blooming 
And the fishing dreams up start. 

I want to go a-fishing, 

There is no fun in town. 

I’m sitting here a-wishing 
To see waters rushing down 
The riffles of a trout stream 
Or where the black bass lurk, 

I want to go a-fishing, 

Spring is no time for work. 


SUMMER SONG- 

Oh, summer in Kanawha, you have this heart of mine 
When purple grapes are bursting into ripeness on the 
vine; 

When sweet peas light the trellis like a rainbow gone 
to bloom 



EDWARD BENNINGHAUS KENNA 


275 


And flooding the dozing garden with their subtle, 
sweet perfume; 

When bees are softly humming round the apples on the 
trees 

And purple morning-glories nod a greeting to the breeze ; 
breeze; 

When far across the meadows the rippling waters 
gleam 

Like the lazy, mazy, hazy recollection of a dream; 

Oh, summer in Kanawha, when skies are azure hue, 

My heart is burning, yearning, ever turning home to 
you. 

Oh, summer in Kanawha, when standing at the gate 

And hearing, far across the fields, the partridge call his 
mate; 

Tis sweet to think the world all love, with not a 
thought of hate, 

To dream the dear old dreams again, before it is too 
late. 

Ah, life is worth the living in the golden, dewy morn 

When field larks pipe their silver notes across the tas- 
seled corn; 

And life is worth the living in the drowsy summer 
noon; 

And dreaming, more than dreaming ’neath the gleam¬ 
ing summer moon; 

Oh, summer in Kanawha, whenever hearts are true 

My heart is burning, yearning, ever turning home to 
you. 

Oh, summer in Kanawha, when twilight shadows fall, 

And floating from the mountains comes the night birds’ 
triple call, 

’Tis then the dream comes thronging like the ghosts 
of happiness, 

And evening breezes thrill me like a mother’s dear 
caress. 


276 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

And I see you, sweetheart, waiting at the old familiar 
place 

And I catch the graceful glimmer of the moonlight on 
your face; 

Oh, my thoughts go winging swiftly through the 
slowly lapsing years 

Till my eyes are brimming, swimming, dimming fast 
with misty tears. 

Oh, summer in Kanawha, whenever hearts are true 

My heart is burning, yearning, ever turning home to 
you. 


THE VALLEY OF SLUMBERLAND 

Into the Valley of Slumberland 
Mama and baby go; 

Softly and sweetly the breezes blow, 

Softly and sweetly the brooklets flow, 

And goblins and fays 
Run hither and there 
And weave moon-rays 
Into garments rare 

For the king and queen of this grand old land— 
The mystical kingdom of Slumberland. 

CHORUS 

Heigho! Byoh! 

Into the Valley of Slumberland, 

Where dreams are the gleams 
Of the Slumbermoon; 

Where the sun’s first ray 
And the break of day 
Come all too soon. 

Heigho ! Sing low! 

Of the joys of the kingdom of Slumberland. 

Over the hills at the close of day, 

Singing a lullaby low; 



EDWARD BENNINGHAUS KENNA 


277 


Hearing the fairy songs as we go. 

Seeing the fairy lights gleam and glow; 

As the fairies dance 
On violets sweet 
That seem to entrance 
Their twinkling feet, 

As they whirl and twirl while the crickets play, 
Over the hills at the close of day. 

In this fair kingdom of Slumberland 
Roses and jasmines blow, 

Sweeter than blossoms our meadows know, 
Fairer than flowers our gardens grow; 

So, baby, let’s go 
To this valley fair, 

Where never a woe 
Nor ever a care 

Can come to kill joy, in this wonderful land;— 
The mystical kingdom of Slumberland. 

Heigho! Byoh! 

Into the Valley of Slumberland, 

Where dreams are the gleams 
Of the Slumbermoon; 

Where the sun’s first ray, 

And the break of day 
Come all too soon. 

Heigho ! Sing low ! 

Of the joys of the kingdom of Slumberland. 


A MOTHER’S KISS 

The kisses that her lips impress 
Are sacred things, and bring to me 
A sweetness that is holiness— 

That lives for all eternity; 

For mother’s love is like a ring, 

A precious, perfect, endless thing. 



KATHARINE PEARSON WOODS 


K atharine Pearson Woods, well known as a novelist,, 
historian and poet, was the daughter of Alexander 
Quarrier and Josephine (McCabe) Woods, and 
was born in Wheeling, West Virginia, January 28, 1853. 
In 1856, her parents moved to Baltimore, Maryland. 
After the death of Miss Woods’ father in 1862, Mrs. 
Woods and her children resided for a time at West River, 

Anne Arundel county, 
the home of her father, 
Rev. James Dabney Mc¬ 
Cabe, who was one of the 
most scholarly and high¬ 
ly gifted clergymen of 
his day. The literary 
and religious atmosphere 
of this home exerted a 
strong influence on Miss 
Woods as is evidenced 
by her life's work. In 
1867, Mrs. Woods with 
her children returned to 

Baltimore that thev 

«/ 

might have the greater 
3d ucati onal advanta ges 
afforded in the schools 
of that city. 

In 1874, Miss Woods entered the sisterhood of All 
Saints, as a postulant but because of ill health was com¬ 
pelled to give up the work. Later she took up social 
settlement work and spent a year in Boston, New York, 
Philadelphia, and Hartford. In 1876, she taught at 
Mount Washington, Maryland, and later in Wheeling, 
West Virginia. In 1903-06, she was a missionary among 
the mountaineers of North Carolina. From 1907 to 19lf 



278 




KATHARINE PEARSON WOODS 


279 


she was engaged in kindergarten work in connection 
with St. John’s Protestant Episcopal Church in Balti¬ 
more. She became interested in the Emmanuel Move¬ 
ment in 1909 and assisted in founding the Psychological 
Club. 

Miss Woods was the author of a number of novels 
(See bibliography) and one historical work, “The True 
Story of Captain John Smith.” All of her books have 
won for her many interested and appreciative readers. 
She also wrote stories, sketches, reviews, and poems that 
appeared in Harper’s and other magazines. An appre¬ 
ciative critic has said of her verse: “Her songs carry 
into one’s soul the very breath of life and love; they do 
not plead for response in our hearts—it greets them ere 
the mere words are ended.” 

Miss Woods died suddenly of pneumonia on Feb¬ 
ruary 18, 1923, at her home in Baltimore. 


A SONG OF LOVE AND SUMMER 

My true-love hath her dwelling built 
High up the leafy hill; amid 
All flowers that grow, all winds that blow. 

My love’s abiding-place is hid. 

So far above the wmrld she dwells, 

Her fellow-citizens have wings; 

Yet to mine ear e’en birds are dumb 
When ’mid their music my love sings. 

Who to my true-love’s nest would climb 
Must trace a pathway, winding slow, 
’Mid trees that bend and flowers that send 
Sweet influence where he would go. 

The elder-flower there spreads her balms; 

The aster opes her purple eyes; 

Beside the gate, with coral trump, 

The honeysuckle guards surprise. 



280 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


0 winding stairway, where I tread; 

0 rocks, where ferns may fearless spring; 
Rose-arbors sweet, where weary feet 
May pause to list bird-welcoming! 

0 little dwelling where she dwells!— 

Hush, birdlings, hush your roundelay; 

For love is ours, and love is all; 

Hush! silence is love’s melody. 

Harper’s Magazine, 1902. 


A SONG OF SUNSET 

The sky was aflush with an eager joy 

O’er the mountains steady and still; 

Aglow with glory, the golden west, 

The south was a rose on the mountain’s breast. 

(Is the heart of age as the heart of a hoy, 

That a man should yearn for an infant’s toy? 

Yet love must have her will!) 

When the rose had burned to a patient gray, 
When the west was poor and cold, 

Strong, softly steadfast, tho’ night be drear! 

(For having is better than hope, they say; 

And who shall grieve, that, at close of day, 

A young love came to the old? 

Harper’s Magazine, 1904. 



ANNA PIERPONT SIVITER 



A nna Pierpont Siviter, daughter of Francis Harrison 
. Pierpont. governor of Virginia from 1861 until 
1867, and Julia A. (Robertson) Pierpont, was born 
in Fairmont, West Virginia. She was educated at Wash¬ 
ington Seminary, at Pittsburgh College, and by private 
tutors. On June 24, 1886, she married William Henry 
Siviter, who has been on the staff of the Pittsburgh 

Chronicle - D i s p a t cli 
since 1885, and who is 
widely known as a hu¬ 
morist. Mrs. Siviter is 
a very prominent social- 
service worker, and de¬ 
votes a large part of 
her time to welfare 
work. She was one of 
the organizers of the 
Free Kindergarten As¬ 
sociation and the Kin¬ 
dergarten College. She 
is active in the manage¬ 
ment of the Pittsburgh 
Hospital for children, 
and is the editor of its 
magazine, The Chronicle. 
During the World War 
she served as chairman of thirty-two war-work commit¬ 
tees. She is also one of the most prominent club-women 
of Pennsylvania. 

Mrs. Siviter was associate editor of Our Young People 
from 1888 until 1893. She also had editorial charge of the 
Sunday School periodicals of the Methodist Protestant 
Church in 1899. She is a popular contributor to a 
number of magazines and other periodicals. Her work 


281 





282 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

in Life, Judge, Punch, and similar publications caused 
Tom Masson to sav of her: “If she would turn her at- 
tention to humorous writings, she would have a great 
future.” In 1903, she published “Nehe, a Tale of the 
Time of Artaxerxes,” which has been used in many high 
schools as a supplementary text in ancient history. She 
is also the author of several books of verse that have been 
highly praised by writers and critics; among them .Rich ¬ 
ard Burton, Richard Moulton, and Edwin Mims. Her 
last book, “Songs Sung along Life's Way,” contains some 
of her best work. Mrs. Siviter regards her poem, “The 
Tree,” read by Dr. Jesse Hurlbut to the graduating 
class at Chautauqua, New York in the summer of 1922, 
and later published in The New York Times Supple¬ 
ment as the best of her recent poetry. 

Mrs. Siviter has written the greater part of a life of 
her distinguished father and though publishers have 
urged her to finish the biography, she has not yet com¬ 
pleted it, “partly because it is so personal,. and 

partly because she finds being a grandmother of such 
absorbing interest that there is little time left for real 
work. ’ ’ 

THE SCULPTOR 

“And shall the dead arise?” I cried; “It can not be; 
nay, nay; 

The dead are dead, and long ere now my loved ones 
are but clay!” 

‘ ‘ They are but clay ?' ’ the sculptor said ; and, stooping 
down, he took 

"Within his hands a lump of clay—high and serene his 
look. 

W T ith swift and subtle fingers then, led by an artist’s 
brain, 

He turned himself to moulding it. I shut my eyes in 
pain; 

For my heart was throbbing, calling, was longing for 
that face 

That now the hillside grasses hid forever from its place. 



ANNA PIERPONT SIVITER 


283 


Then the sculptor worked in silence, and in silence 1 
sat there; 

For my thoughts were very bitter, though my head was 
bent in prayer. 

“Had he hope?” the sculptor questioned; and I an¬ 
swered, “Hope he had, 

And a soul high-born and fearless; trust in heav’n had 
made him glad!” 

“Hope I’ve given,” said the sculptor, “hope and love 
and high-born grace; 

Tell me you who once so loved him, is this clay or his 
own face?” 

And I looked. 0 heart, cease throbbing! What a 
miracle was here! 

In his old-time strength and beauty, with his eyes serene 
and clear; 

With his white hair clustering round it, shining as an 
angel’s might, 

Lo, the face I dreamed but clay, stood resurrected in 
my sight. 

Speechless now from very rapture, first I gazed, and then 
I cried, 

“ ’Tis a miracle! 0 sculptor, dust has turned to life!” 
He sighed: 

“Naught but clay I here have fashioned, yet for ages it 
shall stay, 

For its beauty shrined in marble lives when we have 
passed away. 

Mine are merely human fingers; life they may not bring, 
nor soul, 

I can only give the body, part for part and whole for 
whole. 

But the Master, when He made him, gave him life and 
gave him breath,— 

Whispered he should be immortal. Shall the Lord be 
robbed by death? 


284 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Nay! The clay on yonder hillside, moulded by our 

God’s own hands, 

Shall be dowered with life eternal when His saint before 

Him stands. ’ ’ 

From The Sculptor and Other Poems, 1903. 

THE PALM TREE 

Soft cradled in the ground, a seed, 

Through long slow weeks lay sleeping, 

Till Nature, fearing it had died, 

Awakened it by weeping. 

It turned its face up to the light, 

The south wind gently kissed it; 

The sun shone on it with delight, 

The dewdrops never missed it. 

So nature crowned it with her love, 

The birds trilled softly to it; 

The flowers trooped smiling to its feet; 

They knew all sweets were due it. 

And as in beauty grew the palm, 

Men questioned, but none guessed, 

Why birds and breezes, sun and sky, 

Were bringing it their best. 

Ah, happy day when heaven’s King 
Comes riding lowly by! 

The people glad hosannas sing. 

And seek a banner nigh. 

The palm tree bowed its plumes of green, 

As stately warriors bold 

Salute their king; the sun shone down, 

And showered the tree with gold. 

The people saw the banners float, 

Each perfect in its grace; 


ANNA PIERPONT SIVITER 


285 


Then tore them from the willing tree 
To wave before His face. 

From The Sculptor and Other Poems, 1903. 


NOT YET 

Move gently, I pray you, my baby is sleeping; 

I would not awake her, lest she may be weeping. 

The day holds its joy, but the night brings its sorrow; 
Then sleep, little baby, sleep on till the morrow. 

Not yet Love, I pray you, the maid’s heart is sleeping; 
Oh, Love, do not wake it, lest she may be weeping. 
Unknowing your joy and your grief still ’tis nesting, 
Safe here in my breast, where so softly she’s resting. 
Move gently, I pray you, the maid’s heart is sleeping; 
Oh, Love, do not wake her, lest she may be weeping. 

From The Sculptor and Other Poems, 1903. 


THE TREE 

My Lord, I do not understand; 

Thou givest me threescore years and ten 
To make and mold my life, and then— 

Dear Lord, to grow one perfect tree 
A thousand years are not to Thee 
Too many years for Thy wise hand 
To make this redwood tree! 

And threescore years and ten for me! 

Behold this pebble at my feet, 

Round, smooth, and white, a perfect stone; 

Ten thousand years upon ten thousand years have flown 
Since this one was begun! 

And I 

Have only threescore years and ten, 

And heart on fire with keen desire, 




286 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


A brain alive to work and strive! 

Ten million years too soon would fly, 

And I have threescore years and ten! 

Where is thy justice, dear God, when 
To make a tree a thousand years, 

A million years to make a stone, 

And then, despite our prayers and tears, 

A span of threescore years and ten 

Is given to men! 

* * # # # 

Let be, my body is the seed; for me , 

Is made Eternity! 

From Songs Sung Along Life’s Way, 1921. 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 
anny Kemble Johnson (Mrs. Vincent Costello), was 



1 born in Rockbridge County, Virginia. Her fa¬ 
ther was Porter Johnson, whose family lived at 
Bridgeport, near Clarksburg, West Virginia. Her mo¬ 
ther, Rose Mary Brown, was of old Eastern Virginia 
stock. 

Mrs. Costello grew up in the beautiful Natural 
Bridge country near Lexington. During her girlhood 
she spent much of her time horseback riding which she 
liked “better if anything than writing.’’ She was edu¬ 
cated, according to old Virginia traditions, in private 
schools. She has lived in West Virginia since 1897. On 
June 14, 1899, she married Mr. Vincent Costello of 
Charleston. Mr. and Mrs. Costello have three daugh¬ 
ters, and a son who has inherited his mother’s love 
for literary work. 

Mrs. Costello is the author of “The Beloved Son” 
and a number of short stories and poems possessing lit¬ 
erary merit of high quality. She has been a frequent 
contributor to the best magazines including the Atlantic, 
Harper’s Magazine, and the Century Magazine, and has 
also published poems in the Youth’s Companion and 
Harper’s Weekly. Her story “They Both Needed It” 
received high praise from Edward J. O’Brien, in his 
“Best Short Stories of 1918.” Mr. O’Brien included her 
story, “The Strange Looking Man,” in his “Best Short 
Stories of 1917.” He says: “I suppose that this story 
is to be regarded as a sketch rather than a short story, 
but in any case it is a vividly rendered picture of war’s 
effects portrayed with subtle irony and suiet art. I 
associate it with ‘ Chautonville ’ by Will Levington Com¬ 
fort, and ‘The Flying Teuton’ by Alice Brown, as one 
of the three stories with the most authentic spiritual 
message in American fiction that the war has produced. ’ ’ 

287 


288 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

THE LOST CHILD 

It was far to go for the little fellow, 

And I think it was dark out there 
Away from the sunshine, warm and mellow, 

That sweetened his earthly air. 

It was far to go; it was dark, I know, 

And it broke my heart that it should be so. 

The distance between a joy and a joy, 

Or between a star and a star— 

Some measure like this we may employ, 

Nor measure at last how far. 

And they were not fleet—they were little feet 
To stumble beside me in the street. 

Oh, little fellow, dear little fellow, 

Once where the strange roads crossed 
In magical woods of sunlit yellow, 

You, lagging behind, were lost— 

Just a step aside; I knew that wide 
And terrified look, the day you died. 

When it is day I can dissemble, 

And cover from sight my care; 

But when it is dark in tears I tremble: 

What if he be lost out there ? 

In my troubled sleep, I cower, I weep, 

I am little and lost, and the dark is deep. 

When the ghost moon steals down the mountain hollow 
To peer through my window bars, 

I wake and pray to be dead to follow 
His stumbles between the stars. 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


289 


THE WATCHER 

Three of the night, when men are still, 
You hear the Silence creeping down. 

All day it crouches on the hill, 

And looks toward the town; 

But only at the dead of night 
It dares to leave its dark retreat, 

And like an evil, untamed thing, 

Invades the vacant street. 

The thousand slumber unaware, 

Sleep sound, sleep deep, and never know 
How hours long throughout the town 
It paces to and fro, 

Or lies at ease with large bright eyes 
Fixed full upon my window square, 

For sometimes, sickened of surmise, 

I rise, and find it there. 

I shudder, but I surely know 
Some day when fires of dawn are lit 
To drive it backward to the hill, 

That I shall follow it. 

And let it lead me where the pines 
Cast shadows that shall never shift 
For any sun, and leave me lost 
Where shadows never lift. 


t 

SINGING HE RODE 

Song that clangs like the battle, 

Song, keen as the wind that nips, 
I rode away to the dawn of day, 

And such song rose to my lips. 



290 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Youth, surely I spent it. 

Life, it was mine to spend,— 

And the clear red line of the morning lay 
Eastward without an end. 

Further than thought could reach them— 
Backward into the dark— 

The Lords of my house were ranged away, 
The men of might, and of mark. 

Possessing the heights behind me 

The towers of my own brave line, 

Mine, as the azure tide of the wrist, 

And bend of the brow, be mine. 

My shadow galloped behind me, 

The heights of my home were lit, 

A gold sun broke through a scarlet sky 
And I rode in the blaze of it. 


THE MOOR’S KEY 

By the wall of an ancient city, 

Set in the wide red sand, 

Clutched by a dying beggar, 
Stolen from his dead hand, 

Sold for a coin of copper, 

Bought for a coin of gold, 

It lies on my desk, recording 
A romance centuries old. 

For the beggar was heir to princes 
Whose palaces rose in Spain,— 
Arabesqued arches springing, 
Fountains of music singing, 
Spraying the courts of marble— 
Only the keys remain, 



FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON * 


291 


Hundreds of crumbling years since then, 
Only the keys remain, 

And one was clutched by the beggar 
Who starved on the wide red plain. 


THEY BOTH NEEDED IT 

“I’m going up to camp, Kathy,” said Ivor. 

His wife turned quickly in her place. Her small, 
sober face confronted him inimically. 

“I can’t put it off any longer,” said Ivor. 

“I suppose not,” agreed Kathy, quiveringly; but 
her big, dark eyes pleaded, an old, old mother plea. 

“You don’t imagine I like to?” asked Ivor in an 
injured tone. 

“And that’s the very reason why you’ll overdo it,” 
broke out Kathy, “and I’ll be waiting here at home, 
and hating you.” The words flamed out at him. 

“Good heavens, Kathy!” said Ivor, “don’t you 
know your own boy well enough to know that he’d hate 
me himself if I were fool enough to be soft with him 
about this?” 

“Are you going to—kill—him—just because he 
isn’t a coward?” 

“Not quite,” said Ivor. He grinned irrepressibly. 
“Don’t you worry about Koddy. He’ll come up smil¬ 
ing. Here, aren’t you going to tell me good-by?” 

She shook her head speechlessly, moving away. He 
detained her firmly. 

“Why, Kathy, that boy’s the best thing I’ve got— 
next to his mother. Can’t you trust me to hurt him 
when I must?” 

She pushed him away, her tears streaming. 

“Hell!” muttered Ivor softly as she ran sobbing 
from the room. He went to the sideboard and poured 
himself a stiff drink. 

He repeated both ejaculation and potation several 
times during his drive to Nelson’s store, where he left 




292 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

the cutter. He was feeling very sad and firm about 
Roddy by the time he began to climb the trail to camp. 
It was quite dark and snowing heavily when he reached 
the cabin and pushed at the shed door. Only the dim 
glow from a bed of coals lighted the inner room. He 
stood, hand on knob, peering through the gloom. 

Roddy rose hastily from a low seat by the hearth. 
Even in the dimness Ivor caught a flare of expression 
which made him say to himself, “Darn if I don’t be¬ 
lieve the kid’s glad I’ve come.” 

“Why don’t you fix up your fire?” he asked curt¬ 
ly. ‘ ‘ What do you mean by letting it go out on you this 
weather ?’’ 

“I didn’t notice,” stammered Roddy. He stooped, 
throwing on logs and saying: 

“I’ll get you some supper.” 

“Had mine at Nelson’s,” said Ivor. 

He had consciously to harden his voice. He con¬ 
cluded not to make conversation. He drew up a home¬ 
made arm-chair of hickory, settled himself comfortably, 
and lighted a cigar. Roddy returned to his seat on the 
box in the corner. Ivor smoked and considered him 
thoughtfully. His boast to Kathy was, he reflected, 
justifiable; for while Roddy appeared under pale and 
troubled conviction of sin, there was nothing in face or 
bearing which invited Ivor to be soft with him. He 
neither sought nor avoided his father’s eyes. He mere¬ 
ly waited in quiet, submissive readiness for Ivor’s next 
move. 

‘ ‘ If you ’ll hunt me out some blankets I ’ll turn in, ’ 1 
said Ivor, breaking a long hour’s silence. He added, 
watching the boy with a cruelly intimate scrutiny, “I’m 
going to want you up pretty early in the morning.” 

“All right, sir,” said Roddy, quietly. 

Ivor continued to observe him as he moved about, 
taking blankets from a locker. There seemed a short¬ 
age of pillows. He carried his own over to Ivor’s cot. 

“I’ll turn in too, then,” he said to Ivor, adding 
timidly, “Good night, Father.” 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


293 


Ivor nodded. It was some time before he lay 
down. He slept brokenly, and rose in the darkness of 
early morning to waken Roddy. 

Roddy had not slept much during his week of wait¬ 
ing for he knew not what. What he was to get had been 
the least and pleasantest of his conjectures, which had 
included prison or long exile from home, perhaps. In 
his relief at knowing exactly what to expect and when 
to expect it he had fallen into deep and dreamless 
slumber. There was much of the little fellow in the 
sleeping aspect of the big boy. Roddy’s dark head was 
snuggled in the relaxed curve of his elbow. His dark 
lashes brushed a cheek which had scarcely lost the soft 
curve of young boyhood. 

‘ ‘ Damn ! ’ ’ muttered Ivor, bitterly hating what he 
had to do. He dropped a deliberately heavy hand on 
the boy’s shoulder. 

Roddy’s eyes opened vaguely. He smiled at Ivor 
the least bit, and closed them again, plainly feeling him¬ 
self to be at home in bed. 

Ivor shook him awake. Roddy’s eyes came open 
to stay, comprehension in them. He sat up. 

“In just a moment, Father,” he said. 

Ivor went back to the fire and stood there waiting. 

“All right, Father,” said Roddy presently from 
where he had gone to kneel. 

Ivor stood over him for a pausing moment, flinging 
out the whip. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

Roddy lifted his eyes. 

“He wants it,” thought Ivor. A fierce thrill of 
exultation in the boy’s mood ran through him. 

It was during his second five-minute intermission 
that Roddy got to his feet and went to stand by the 
cabin window. It swung on hinges high up in the wall, 
and he opened it, letting the snow-laden wind blow on 
his face. He drew a deep breath, tasting its purity and 
coldness. A. movement across the room attracted his 
attention, and he glanced around in time to see Ivor 


294 STORIES AND VERSE OP WEST VIRGINIA 

thrusting a flask back into his pocket. Roddy took an¬ 
other deep breath of the pure, cold air. A gust of wind 
tore apart the snow-cloud, and for a moment the wfidte 
peak across the valley stood revealed. Steps closed in 
on him. He shut the window and knelt almost auto¬ 
matically, his vision filled with the vast, bleak sweep of 
the peak. Ivor’s touch on his shoulder gave him a 
moment of strange surprise. 

‘ ‘ Put up your arms! ’ ’ ordered Ivor in a thick, 
slightly uncertain voice. 

As Roddy obeyed, he thought, “He’s trying to 
break me.” 

Roddy still wanted it, but his traitorous fingers be¬ 
gan to long to reach back, to get themselves on the whip, 
to tear it from his father’s grasp. Suddenly his hands, 
held with scrupulous steadiness above his stoically erect 
young head, flung towards each other and gripped, each 
snatching the other back. 

A sharp quiver ran over Ivor’s face. Roddy had 
been mistaken about one thing. Ivor’s actual intention 
toward him! had been the one of ascertaining the precise 
measure of his big Boy’s grip on himself. There he had 
meant to stop. When he finally stayed his hand he re¬ 
mained by Roddy, studying his profile, hard drawn a- 
gainst the light. It gasped, slightly bent, the profile of 
the spent runner. 

“Son,” said Ivor, “what made you do it?” 

Roddy’s straining arms relaxed. He turned, let¬ 
ting them fall to the near-by table. 

“What made you?” repeated Ivor. 

Roddy seemed not to hear. Just in front of him 
lay a tiny drift of snow which had blown in through a 
crevice in the window-frame and lodged on the table. 
Toward this his clenched hands stole forth from his pit 
of burning. As they touched that purity, that coldness, 
a long shudder seized Roddy. He lurched forward and 
lay with his head between his arms, his palms pressed 
to the snow. 

Ivor stood over Roddy looking troubled and some- 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


295 


what alarmed. Presently he touched his fingers to the 
culprit’s racing pulse, felt for his hammering heart, 
wiped the iey sw^eat from his temples, bent at length, 
speaking to him anxiously. 

At that Roddy stirred, lifted his head, gazed at Ivor 
blankly. 

“All right?” asked Ivor. His voice shook a little. 

“Sure,” muttered Roddy, bringing out the single 
word with some difficulty. His blank gaze became a- 
ware. He gave Ivor a faint, twisted smile of reassur¬ 
ance. 

“Roddy,” said Ivor again, “what made you do 

it?” 

Roddy did not answer. A dark flush so all-envelop¬ 
ing that it obscured the marks of his penalty crept over 
his face and clung. 

Half sitting on the edge of the table, Ivor con¬ 
tinued i 

“Forgery ’s a mighty ugly thing, Roddy.” 

He kept coiling and uncoiling the whip as he spoke, 
his eyes on Roddy’s shamed and bent head. 

“I can’t understand your doing a thing like that, 
you’ve always been so straight with me.” 

“I was fool drunk,” said Roddy, bitterly. He did 
not look up. 

“But you knew you did it?” 

“Oh 1 knew 1 did it all right; it was just that I 
didn’t give a damn. I wasn’t excusing myself, Father. 
I ought to be—killed.” 

Ivor’s look of perplexity held. 

“But even drunk, you must have had some reason. 
Now, you don’t gamble, and if you needed money for 
any legitimate use you knew you’d only to ask for it; 
I’ve never been short with my boys. Was it—here look 
at me, Roderick.” 

With an obvious effort Roddy obeyed. He had 
grown white again. 

“Had it anything to do with a girl?” asked Ivor, 
with an odd, apologetic sort of hesitation. 


296 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

A look of relief flicked into Roddy’s face. He 
shook his head indifferently. Ivor saw that the ques¬ 
tion meant nothing to him. 

“Then someone took advantage of your being 
drunk, and used you to try to get money out of me,” 
guessed Ivor, not unexpectedly. Roddy was mute, his 
face impassive. 

‘ ‘ I think I ’ll ask you whom you were running with, 
Roddy, when you did that?” 

Roddy raised sullen eyes to Ivor’s. 

“I’m paying,” he said. 

* ‘ And you’ve paid about all you can stand. Do you 
want to pay more than you can stand?” 

Apparently Roddy took this under consideration. 
Shades of varying emotion came and went in his face. 
Finally it grew stubborn beneath Ivor’s eyes. 

“You are my boy,” said Ivor. “It was my name 
and my money you made so free with. It seems to me 
that I’ve the right to ask you anything I like in con¬ 
nection with the affair.” 

Roddy was silent. 

“Come,” said Ivor, “don’t be a fool now. You’re 
not drunk now.” 

Roddy shook his head. His face took on a dread¬ 
ful patience. “Give you one more chance,” said Ivor. 
He stood up. 

Roddy was a big, strong, brave boy, and he was 
seventeen; but he controlled a tremor at this movement 
of Ivor’s. 

“Croy’s not worth it,” said Ivor, suddenly. 

Roddy had controlled the tremor; but he could not 
control the flick of color which confirmed Ivor in his 
suspicion. 

‘ ‘ Good guess, eh! ” said Ivor throwing the whip to 
the floor. “You can go dress now.” 

Roddy’s color deepened painfully. He bit his lip 
as he stumbled to his feet. Ivor put out a steadying 
hand. 

“Not quite fair,” he went on, using his natural 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


297 


manner to the boy for the first time, “but it was the 
only way I’d ever have had it out of you, you stubborn 
ass. Can you manage alone?” 

Roddy nodded. He went over to his cot and fin¬ 
ished dressing with dogged movements which completely 
ignored whatever pain he endured. He pulled on a 
heavy white sweater last, picked up his cap, and stood 
as if pondering over something. 

Roddy was a splendidly handsome lad, and his head 
was set on his shoulders as if he owned the earth. Ivor 
looked at him wistfully. Their eyes met. Roddy’s 
were wistful, too. Ivor took a step toward his son. 

“Roddy,” he said, “I’d sure like to have one decent 
boy. ’ ’ 

Roddy’s lips parted as if to speak, but no sound 
caijie from them. He compromised on a smile, turned 
and took down a pail from a shelf by the door. 

“Oh, I’ll get water,” said Ivor, reaching for his 

coat. 

“Why?” asked Roddy over his shoulders. He went 
on out. 

Left alone, Ivor chuckled as he drew out his flask. 
It was empty, to his disappointment, and he flung it 
from the window into the vacancy beyond the drop of 
the hilltop. Turning, his eye fell on the whip. He 
stooped, and sent that after the flask. A curtain of 
snow blotted it out as it descended through space. Ivor 
felt easier in his mind as he returned to the fire. He 
gave the embers a kick and consulted his watch. It was 
nearly eight, but the morning light still came dimly 
through the snow whirl. The storm was increasing. If 
the weather held, they might not be able to get down the 
mountain at all that day. He heard Roddy coming back 
with fresh water, and stamping the snow from his feet 
in the outer shed. 

“Some blizzard,” said Roddy, entering almost 
gaily.“ Had a regular time getting down to the spring.” 

He got an ax from the corner and went out again. 
Ivor heard the true, ringing blows which proclaimed 


298 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Roddy the natural-born woodsnxan. In an incredibly 
short time he returned with a snowy armful of oak logs, 
and replenished the fire. 

“Need help?” asked Ivor. 

“Oh, nothing much to do,” said Roddy, carelessly. 

He moved about expertly, slicing bacon and mix¬ 
ing corn-meal, and soon had breakfast under way. He 
then drew the table close to the fire, spread a newspaper 
for cloth, and placed covers of camping-kit ware which 
he produced from a rude corner cupboard. 

“I’ll have a wash-up,” said Ivor, going out. 

The shed was a dark little cave of -winds. Fine 
snow particles sifted in everywhere through the shrunk 
boarding, and Ivor did not linger over his ablutions, 
but hurried back to the warm room of logs. 

He found breakfast ready. The fire-light played 
pleasantly on the blue enamel of the dishes, and the food 
odors were enticing. Ivor wanted his drink; but the 
coffee was good, and the bread baked as every Southern 
boy knows how to bake corn-cake. He made an excel¬ 
lent meal, glancing now and then with a pang of com¬ 
punction at Roddy -who drank his coffee feverishly, but 
made no pretense of hunger. After breakfast he sat 
back, smoking, and watching Roddy clear away the 
things. The storm increased. Ivor frowned, and again 
consulted his watch. 

Roddy, having exhausted occupations, sat on the 
side of his cot eyeing Ivor’s repressed, but evident, dis¬ 
content. Ivor said, catching him at it: 

‘ ‘ I admit right now that one night up here this time 
of year is about my limit.” 

“It’s some blizzard,” said Roddy. 

“But it’s not far to Nelson’s.” 

“We’d get lost sure. I’ve a fair sense of direction, 
but I shouldn’t trust to it in this snow smother.” 

“He wants a drink,” thought Roddy. He looked 
down reflectively at his clasped hands, then rose and 
went to the corner cupboard. 

Ivor watched him with a faint flicker of hope; but 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


299 


Roddy had not included anything in the nature of some¬ 
thing to drink in the supplies purchased at the small 
store at Nelson’s. He took out merely a handful of 
tiny articles which he ran over carefully, shifting them 
from one hand to the other. 

“Play you a game?” he said, looking at Ivor. 

Ivor returned the look questioningly. 

Roddy pushed the table back near the window, 
turned its newspaper cover, and revealed a checker¬ 
board square printed on the reverse side. On this he 
emptied the small objects from his cupped hand. They 
disclosed themselves as chessmen not unskilfully whit¬ 
tled out. 

“Been working out games with these,” he said. “I 
couldn’t”—he glanced at his father courageously— 
“mull over my sins every minute of the time, and I was 
rather glad to come across this old Sunday paper in a 
locker. ’ ’ 

Ivor drew his chair around, and examined the chess¬ 
men with amused interest. 

“You are a resourceful chap, Roddy,” he murmur¬ 
ed, setting them up. He lost the first game. 

“You’ve got me outclassed,” he grumbled, “prac¬ 
tising up here by yourself all week.” 

“I think we play a pretty even game, Father,” an¬ 
swered Roddy in a serious tone. He tried an opening 
he had figured out for himself, and won the next game 
in half a dozen moves. 

Ivor sat up, chagrined. “Show me how you did 
that,” he demanded. Roddy showed him. 

“You don’t get me that easy again, my son,” mut¬ 
tered Ivor, vexed at his own stupidity. He beat Roddy 
three times running. 

“Guess I’m not a back number yet,” he bragged, 
getting up to investigate the weather. He returned, re¬ 
porting it worse than ever, and began lining up the 
pieces again. 

Roddy, his arms folded on the table, sat gazing in¬ 
to the snow whirl, through which the black arm of a 


300 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

pine was visible at irregular intervals. Ivor glanced at 
him from time to time. Roddy could not quite make 
himself look as if he had been having a pleasant time of 
it, but his youth and good looks and hard boy’s pride 
very nearly enabled him to accomplish this feat. Even 
to Ivor’s prying eyes he merely appeared subdued and 
a trifle pale. 

“It’s not so bad up here, after all,” said Ivor at 

last. 

Roddv came out of his trance and looked about 
«/ 

him. Red glow and warmth enveloped them. 

“ ‘The tumultuous privacy of storm,’ ” quoted 
Roddy. His eyes smiled across the table at Ivor, 
crinkling at the corners. 

Ivor’s face lighted, looked a question. 

“ ‘The Snow-Storm’ you know.” 

“Lord, yes—in my old reader! None of the new 
fellows can touch the old ones.” 

“They were pretty sincere old fellows,” said 
Roddy, musingly. 

“Maybe that’s why—well, are you tired of losing?” 

They played again, and Ivor in his interest failed to 
remark the passing of time until Roddy swept the pieces 
together instead of setting them up, saying that it must 
be dinner-time. 

Ivor pulled out his watch. “Four,” he called as 
Roddy went out with the ax. He heard Roddy pulling 
a log in on the earthen floor of the shed, heard the blows 
of the ax begin, cease, begin again irregularly. After a 
moment of hesitation Ivor opened the door and crossed 
to the boy. 

“I’ll do that,” he said. 

If Roddy had the impulse again to ask why, he re¬ 
pressed it. He gave up the ax in silence. 

“You can be rustling up some dinner,” said Ivor, 
not meeting his eyes. 

Roddy nodded, and went within. He explored 
the loft and discovered a few apples and butternuts to 
add to their menu. He also discovered a flask of whiskey 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


301 


left there, he conjectured, by Croy during the autumn. 
Roddy considered over this find for some time. He did 
not want it for himself, and he liked his father best 
without it; but he knew very well that Ivor was uncom¬ 
fortable without his accustomed drink, and that one pint 
of whiskey more or less could make small difference in 
the case of a steady drinker. Apparently it resolved 
itself into a question of Roddy’s preferences. He car¬ 
ried the flask down with the apples and nuts and placed 
it on a shelf in the cupboard. 

When Ivor brought in the logs, which it had taken 
him a good while to chop, dinner was on the table, and 
Roddy was down on the floor by the hearth cracking 
nuts. He glanced up to say: 

“By the way, Father, I found a bottle of moon¬ 
shine in the loft. It’s on the shelf there.” 

Ivor threw down the logs, and stood looking at 
Roddy, whose eyes had returned to his task. Across the 
shoulder of Roddy’s old silk shirt a slow stain crept as 
he bent. Ivor’s face contracted. He still felt that next 
to the last straw had not been too extreme a payment to 
exact from Roddy’s penitence; yet he conceived a sud¬ 
den and illogical grudge against the whiskey which had 
enabled him to harden his heart and play the brute. 
But even while he felt this resentment he craved the 
stuff, and his eyes sought the open cupboard. Instead 
of going to it, however, he drew up his chair to the table. 
Roddy joined him with the nuts, and Ivor was relieved 
when he ate his dinner with some show of hunger. After 
the meal Ivor again glanced longingly at the cupboard, 
and again took it out in looking. 

Roddy, after an inquiry, replaced the chessmen on 
the board. It had grown dark, and he brought out 
candles from the cupboard. He had a good store of 
these, and lighted four, placing two on each side. They 
played again, and about nine Ivor said: 

‘ ‘ The last time I looked out it seemed to be clearing 
up. Play you three more games, and then we’d better 
turn in. We’ll want to be off early in the morning.” 


302 STORIES AND VERSE OP WEST VIRGINIA 


“Play you for the championship,” said Roddy. 
“We’re even now.” 

“Very well,” agreed Ivor, rather absently. Roddy 
intercepted his glance as it wandered towards the cup¬ 
board. 

“ I ’ll have a night-cap presently, ’ ’ said Ivor, meeting 
his eye. 

Roddy nodded, moving his pawn. 

Roddy sat over this game with an apparently dis¬ 
proportionate earnestness. A determination born of 
the strange fact that Ivor still held off from the whiskey 
possessed Roddy. His dark brows knitted themselves. 
He was thinking: 

“If I win two out of the three, I’ll say it to him.” 

Roddy vowed this to himself, and he was so afraid 
he would play his best that out of sheer self-disgust he 
did play his best. He won the first game, and Ivor said 
again: 

“You’ve got me outclassed with all this solitary 
practice of yours.” 

But Roddy said again seriously: 

“No; I think we play an even game, Father.” 

Ivor won now, and Roddy’s brows knit more pro¬ 
nouncedly. His eyes pondered brilliantly beneath them. 
His lips became a firm, scarlet bow. The tiny upward 
curves at the corners grew straight and unsmiling. He 
wished so much to be beaten that he played a little bet¬ 
ter than his previous best. 

“Your game,” said Ivor at last. He whistled away 
his chagrin, an eye on the cupboard door. 

“Father,” said Roddy. His voice was beseeching. 

Ivor’s glance deserted the cupboard door to fix 
itself on Roddy’s face. 

“Yes,” he said in a puzzled tone. 

“You said this morning that you’d like to have a 
decent boy,” said Roddy. 

Ivor smiled. He thought he knew what was coming. 

“Well,” said Roddy, and his heart pounded so that 
Ivor heard it, “I’d like to have a different sort of 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


303 


father. ’ ’ 

Ivor sat erect. He was as angry, as wounded, as out¬ 
raged, as if Roddy had drawn back and struck him a 
blow in the face. 

"Damn you!” he cried, “what do you mean by 
that ? ’ ’ 

Roddy turned white, but he was game to finish what 
he had started. 

“When I was five years old, Father, I took my 
first drink from the whiskey left in the bottom of your 
glass—and you gave it to me.” 

Ivor took refuge in silence, in a bitter, steady stare. 
Roddy still did not look at him. 

“I guess it’s ntainly on account of the drinking 
that our family stands for such a lot of unpleasant 
things, Father. We get away with them because you 
have land, money, political influence; but if you didn’t 
have these, we’d be thought no more of than the Worths 
are. What are we but the product of the damned stuff 
they sell us?” He looked at Ivor now, his eyes lighted 
in his quivering face. “What is our name but a synonym 
for dissipation of all sorts, for petty lawbreaking when 
it suits our convenience, for a back-number effort to 
lord it over our neighbors, as if we were feudal barons, 
you know? Why, I’ve heard Croy curse old Sonne- 
borne for asking him to settle for a saddle Croy had been 
using for a year. Croy asked Sonneborne how the hell 
he dared dun an Ivor?” 

Still Ivor did not speak, and again Roddy went on: 

“That’s pretty raw stuff, Father, and we get away 
with it because you have land, money, political influence, 
and we know we can get away with it. What does that 
turn us into? Just bullies,” said Roddy, answering him¬ 
self—“just common neighborhood bullies. Knock a fel¬ 
low down if we ’re drunk enough and don’t like the style of 
his hat,” continued Roddy, referring to a past exploit of 
Croydon’s; “run up bills and pay when we get ready— 
don’t they know we are good for a fey paltry dollars, 
damn ’em ? ’ ’ Roddy quoted another stepbrother, Breck. 


304 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


A dull red had crept into Ivor’s cheek. He wished 
now that he had taken his drink. Lacking the whiskey’s 
prompting, no adequate rebuttal of Roddy’s statements 
occurred to him. He resorted to an obvious personality. 

“You say we are synonyms for many sorry things,” 
he remarked in an ironic tone, “but I think you forgot 
the sorriest.” 

Roddy’s eyes fell. A flame of shame wrapped him. 

“No,” he said huskily, “I didn’t forget.” 

“Not through, are you?” jeered Ivor. 

Roddy, that dark flush still overspreading him, be¬ 
gan to push the queer little chessmen about. When he 
spoke again it was hesitatingly and very slowly: 

“I know you can drink more than most, Father, 
and show it less; but you are bound to show it some, and 
I’ve hardly ever had the chance before to-day to find out 
what you really were like—without the whisky.” 

Ivor looked at him, waiting. 

Visibly Roddy would have let it go at that. 

“Say it,” ordered Ivor with a savage change of 
manner. 

“And it’s been a red-letter day for me,” said 
Roddy, a hard little quiver in his voice. “I’ve been a 
dishonorable cur, and I’ve had as much as I could take 
of what I deserved, yet I’ve been happy all day as—as a 
kid having a Christmas-tree.” 

The last words came almost inaudibly. He jump¬ 
ed up and stood by the fire, his back to the room, his head 
bent. 

“Your place to say all this?” said Ivor. His voice 
trembled with rage. 

“No,” said Roddy, facing him, “I know that I’m 
an insolent hound—Father.” His voice shook on the 
last word. He turned back to the fire. 

‘ ‘ Get to bed! ’ ’ said Ivor, with an oath. 

Roddy obeyed in silence. As he stooped for his 
sleeping-garments Ivor’s sullen glance rested by acci¬ 
dent on the momently bared shoulders. He drew his 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


305 


breath inward wfith a sharp whistling sound, and his 
devils of anger departed from him. He recalled in what 
temper the boy had taken that. He remembered that 
he had put himself aside all day, that he had been a 
cheerful companion. Ivor had had a good time with 
him. 

He dragged his chair around to the hearth. The 
candles guttered out. The failing fire made ghosts in 
the room. Ivor sat on among them, his fists propping 
his chin, facing the facts in the case with that inward 
vision which does not veil or distort. Truth accused 
Ivor. She even justified herself in using a man’s own 
son as spokesman. It was the little thing which got 
under Ivor’s skin most: “I’ve been happy all day as—• 
as a kid having a Christmas-tree.” 

It was past midnight when he glanced over his 
shoulder. Roddy lay prone, his dark head taken be¬ 
tween his arms. Small need for Ivor to ask if he waked. 

“Roddy,” said Ivor. 

“Yes, Father,” said Roddy, humbly. He sat up, 
clasping his knees, his eyes on Ivor. 

Ivor bent to throw on a log before he continued: 

“Croy skipped out to his uncle Croydon’s ranch the 
day I packed you off up here. He’s left debts every¬ 
where. He bluffed a loan out of old Sonneborne to get 
away on.” 

Each word was a question. Roddy was able to an¬ 
swer: 

“I didn’t know Croy meant to go away, Father, or 
that he was deeper in debt than usual.” 

“So,” said Ivor. “Now I’m going to do some more 
guessing, Roddy. I’m going to guess that it was Croy 
who saw to it that you were good and drunk, Croy who 
had that check so handy, Croy who put you up to devil¬ 
ment you’d never have thought of, left to yourself.” 
He hurried on, not looking at Roddy: “And he must 
have been drunker than you w T ere to expect to get away 
with any such fool trick as that with Sheppard. Croy 
wasn’t worth taking that licking for, kid. He’s not 


306 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


worth shooting. He’s been a stray from the first. He 
belongs away back, when he couldJ have led his gang 
looting and have terrorized a country-side. No room 
for him now, so he’s a crooked bully. ’ ’ 

Roddy’s head went down in his arms on his knees. 
Croy had always had Roddy’s love. He had won it 
carelessly when Roddy was a little fellow, and had kept 
it, still carelessly, despite much, Roddy’s heart being a 
fool for loyalty. Croy had got him in dreadful trouble, 
but Croy had been drinking fearfully hard, and was, 
Roddy supposed now, driven desperate by duns. 
Roddy’s heart thrust that aside. What it broke over 
was the little thing—the fact that Croy could go off like 
that without a word to him. 

Ivor kept stealing glances. Presently he crossed 
the room, and sat on the side of the cot, putting a care¬ 
ful arm around Roddy, and getting hold of his tense 
hands. 

“No use fretting over Croy,” said Ivor. 

“I know,” muttered Roddy. His head came up. 
He tried to speak. It sank in his arms again. He shook 
with sudden and rending sobs. 

Ivor ’s arm forgot to be careful. He bent low. 

“Here, stop that! Crov’s not worth it, I tell you.” 

“ It’s not—Croy—now. ’ ’ 

“Oh, it’s not?” Ivor bent lower. 

“Forgive you? Sure. What you think I’m doing 
now?” He stood up, patted Roddy’s arm, said, “You 
just get to sleep if you can,” and returned to his chair 
by the fire. 

Roddy sat on motionless, clasping his knees, striv¬ 
ing to get some real hold on himself; but he was so 
shaken, so torn, so tired, that he found it difficult. The 
dim, warm room became a prison in which he could 
scarcely draw breath. He visioned the white, cold, 
keen-aired world outside with a craving which finally 
drove him to ask: 

“Do you mind if I get up, Father?” 

“Oh,” said Ivor, absently, “I’m not running you 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


307 


now, Roddy.” 

He mused by the fire, listening vaguely to the move¬ 
ments behind him until Roddy came over to the hearth, 
getting into his coat and saying: 

“Thought I’d like a fresh drink of water.” 

“Shouldn’t mind having one myself,” said Ivor, 
rousing and glancing up. Roddy reddened. Ivor 
smiled. 

Roddy went out the front door, plunging knee-high 
in the drift. The icy air bathed him, renewed him. The 
descent to the spring was steep and over rocks. He 
made it in a breathlessly connected series of leaps 
through a noon-bright moonlight. 

The spring was a pool of ink within overhanging 
hillocks of snow. Behind Roddy the uneven paper- 
white rise was sketched thickly with charcoal marks of 
pine stems. Above him winged black branches bore 
fantastic burdens of snow. Before him the forest broke, 
and midway in the vast triangular space thus opening 
out was the apparition of the white peak across the val¬ 
ley. In its gleaming vestures gaped wounds as black as 
space. 

Every boy in a coal country knows something of 
mines. Roddy stood, his eyes on the mouths of the 
mines opposite, a vivid scrap of mine vocabulary spring¬ 
ing to mind. 

“Run of mine,” mused Roddy to himself, “run of 
mine. ’ ’ 

His imagination lighted the phrase as the moon¬ 
light lighted the opposing face of the mountain. For an 
output of coal he beheld an output of humanity, stream¬ 
ing ceaselessly. Life dug. Did Death sift? wondered 
Roddy. For one atom of that endlessly rushing stream 
to judge another atom—Roddy’s eyes went past the peak 
to the splendid sky. Shining resolves trooped into his 
heart. He felt that his father had been extraordinarily 
forbearing and kind, and he\thought that it was a big 
thing just to be alive with the job of making a decent 
man out of himself stretching before him. 


308 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

He stooped and swung up a miraculous pail of sil¬ 
ver from the pool of ink. He took as long as he could 
to break the path round to the shed door. Once he 
broke into a clear whistle. 

Ivor, standing by the fire, heard it and looked re¬ 
lieved. 

“What do you say to getting along down to Nel¬ 
son’s?” he asked as Roddy entered. “The dogs know 
us, and we could get the cutter out without disturbing 
the family. We could be home for breakfast. How’s 
that ? ’ ’ 

“I couldn’t be suited better,” said Roddy. He 
whistled again as he moved about making ready to get 
off. He stood still at length, merely glancing around 
to see whether he had neglected anything. His eye fell 
on the chessmen, and he gathered them together, replac¬ 
ing them on the cupboard shelf, where the bottle of 
moonshine still offered itself untouched. He turned to 
find Ivor’s eyes resting on him thoughtfully. 

“Better leave that here,” said Ivor. “Some one 
stumlbling on this place in bad weather might find it use¬ 
ful. ” He went on out, and Roddy heard him plung¬ 
ing ahead down the path. When Roddy fastened up 
and strode after, Ivor was silhouetted starkly in the 
moonlight. Ten paces from the cabin Roddy succumb¬ 
ed to temptation, bent, straightened, flung a snow-ball 
clean and hard. It spun Ivor’s soft felt down the moun¬ 
tain-side, and filled his coat-collar with snow. 

“I’ll get you for that,” he shouted, breaking for 
Roddy. 

They tussled together, and Roddy, helpless with 
laughter, went down in a drift. Ivor scrubbed his face 
for him. 

“That’ll teach you,” panted Ivor, letting him up. 

Roddy, breathless, bareheaded, still chuckling, ran 
for Ivor’s hat. Ivor stood digging the snow out of his 
collar and grinning, pure joy of fatherhood in his heart 
as he watched Roddy swinging back up the slope. Rod¬ 
dy, snapped back to normal, laughter lingering in hig 


FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON 


309 


face, moonlight and mischief in his eyes, head set on his 
shoulders as if he owned the earth was a sight to make 
a soilless man go hang himself with envy. 

“You darn—beautiful—kid, you,” muttered Ivor. 

‘ ‘ Eh ? ’ ’ asked Roddy, catching a w T ord as he came up. 

“Why, I said,” Ivor assured him, “that if ever I 
caught you drinking again, Roddy Ivor, I would wear 
my arm out on you.” 

Roddy’s lips parted as if to speak, but no sound 
came from them. He compromised on a smile. His sub¬ 
dued look returned. He tramped silently by Ivor’s side 
until they reached Nelson’s. Now the pressing ac¬ 
count between his father and himself had been settled, 
another matter arose to harry him. As he helped harness 
he looked across the horses at Ivor. 

“Who knows?” he blurted. 

Ivor’s eyes twinkled. He busied himself for some 
moments before he replied: 

“No one but Sheppard, and I told him—” He 
paused as if it were a game and Roddy’s turn. 

“That you’d—” Roddy stopped, coloring. 

“Why, yes,” said Ivor, humorously grave, “I did 
—something like that.” 

Neither spoke again for some time. Roddy drove, 
looking straight ahead. Ivor smoked cigar after cigar, 
musingly. As they came within sight of the house Ivor 
turned in his seat. 

“One time when bullying was excusable, eh?” he 
asked. He glanced at Roddy, his warm, brown eyes 
whimsical and interrogative in the red morning light. 

For the first time Roddy’s face begged off. 

“Oh, well,” said Ivor. 

When Roddy returned from taking the cutter to 
the stables, he found his father waiting for him on the 
back porch, and they went in together. 

“Guess mama’s not down yet,” said Ivor. He led 
the way upstairs and peeped into a room. 

“Well, Kathy,” he called, flinging the door open, 
“I’ve brought back your boy alive, you see.’’ 


310 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Roddy’s mother, seated in a low chair by the hearth 
combing her hair, looked quickly around. Her eyes ran 
past Ivor. That look of hers drew Roddy to his knees 
by her side, drew his araijs around her, drew his head 
to the hollow of the shoulder. After a brief period of 
relaxation such as even a seventeen-year-old boy might 
with honor take in his own mother’s arms, Roddy 
straightened, and faced her with eyes that were Truth’s 
own home. 

“Mama,” he said, “I’m going to be a decent fel¬ 
low from now on. I shan’t ever give you and father 
any more trouble.” 

He got to his feet and marched out, valiant, attend¬ 
ed almost visibly by the shining resolves, minding his 
own business so exclusively that he would not even 
glance out of the corner of his eye at Ivor standing over 
by a window. 

As the door shut behind Roddy, Ivor turned and re¬ 
garded Kathy. With youth out of the room, she look¬ 
ed astonishingly young. Kathy, her long, black hair 
spread web-like and fan-wise from the top of her small 
head to her knees where her white fingers pulled it taut, 
studied Ivor’s look with big, inscrutable, dark eyes. He 
had a funny subdued expression for which she was try¬ 
ing to account. She smiled suddenly. 

“What you looking at me like that for?” demanded 

Ivor. 

“Why,” said Kathy, “you look exactly as if you’d 
been having—one—too, Rod’rick.” She opened her 
arms to him. 

“Honey,” asked Ivor, coming to them shame-faced- 
ly, “how’d you like to have two good boys?” 

“Oh,” said Kathy, quaintly, “I reckon I could 
stand it, Rod’rick.” 


The Century Magazine, 1916. 


FRANK PRESTON SMART 


F rank Preston Smart has lived in West Virginia all 
his life with the exception of a few years spent in 
Ohio. For years, he has been engaged in news¬ 
paper work on various papers in the State, and is at pres¬ 
ent on the staff of The Parkersburg Dispatch-News. He 
is widely known as a writer of ability. In 1910, when 
Parkersburg held its centennial celebration, he was chosen 
to write the Centennial Poem. Mr. Smart’s work as a 
writer of verse has been of such excellence that it is 
greatly to be regretted that he has never published a col¬ 
lection of his poems, many of which have appeared in 
The Century, Putnam’s, Scribner’s Magazine, Munsey’s 
Magazine, Puck, and other standard publications. 


GUERDON 

Expect nor fame, nor gold, nor any praise— 

The world puts not its meed in every hand; 

Work on, and still be thankful all thy days, 

If even one shall see and understand! 

Munsey’s Magazine, 1904. 


A COMMENT 

Dead! Why, the word seems strange 
And, somehow, out of place. 

I cannot conceive such a change 
In that eager, empty face. 

I remember him at school, 

Futilely plodding—no drone, 

Yet scarce one rem'ove from a fool. 

And, now—but to think !—he has known. 

311 




312 


STORIES AND VERSE OP WEST VIRGINIA 


The utter terror’s grip— 

What it is (the thought bites like a knife) 

To feel the fingers slip 

On the last smooth ledge of life. 

To clutch at the breath as it goes, 

To see the light shrink to a spark, 

Then flicker and fail—and he knows 
What happens out there in the dark. 

Scribner’s Magazine, 1905. 

OLD CALHOUN 
A Voice from the Philippines 

There’s an old log hut in the elbow of a hill, 

Back in old Calhoun, 

Where through all the long June evenin’s you can hear 
the whippoorwill— 

Back in old Calhoun. 

There the moon comes up the mountain when the sun 
goes down, 

And the coves are drenched with silver till the laurels 
drip and drown, 

And the wood-dove stops her mournin’ and the owl 
takes up the soun’, 

And the chirrin’ of the crickets chills the dew out of 
the groun’— 

Back in old Calhoun— 

That’s the place that I was born in; 

Back in old Calhoun— 

That’s the place for which I’m mournin’; 

There is something fair to see there— 

There is something sweet to me there; 

And I’m wearyin’ to be there— 

Back in old Calhoun! 

There’s a little girl a-standin’ just within the cabin 
door, 

Back in old Calhoun, 



FRANK PRESTON SMART 


313 


There’s an old mian in the corner and a baby on the 
floor— 

Back in old Calhoun. 

There’s a look that I remember underneath her lashes 
black, 

And it haunts me and it hurts me, till my heart is on 
the rack— 

For it’s hungry for her kisses and the happiness I lack, 

And I’d marry her tomorrow, if I only could get back— 

Back to old Calhoun, 

When the spring is just a-wakin’; 

Back to old Calhoun, 

When the white frost’s hold is breakin’. 

Here it’s summer till I hate it. 

Ah, I would not so berate it, 

If I could but await it 
Back in old Calhoun! 

There’s a crazy porch hangs over, where the big road 
bends, 

Back in old Calhoun— 

Covered up with morning-glories that a white-haired 
woman tends— 

Back in old Calhoun; 

And a gray house leans and loves it for the tendrils 
that have clomb.... 

Up a roof the rain has rotted from the eave-trough to 
the comb.... 

My eyes ache with the sun-glare—far away miy glance 
would roam— 

This whole blessed bunch of islands isn’t worth one sight 
of home! 

Back in old Calhoun, 

I can see the cornfields yellowing 

Back in old Calhoun, 

I can smell the Bellflowers, mellowin’— 


314 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Hear the cider-presses streamin’; 

Glimpse the white wheat-stubble gleamin’; 

But I’m only in my dreamin’ 

Back in old Calhoun! 

On the coast, or hikin’ inland, it is all the same to me—- 
(Back in old Calhoun!) 

The homesickness is upon me and I only want to be 
Back in old Calhoun. 

Strange the country all about me—strange the faces 
on the street; 

I’ve my fill of “fightin’ niggers”—of the hardship and 
the heat. 

God! I b’lieve they’ll let me die here, ’fore I know 
again the sweet 

Breath o’ locust blooms above me—the red clay beneath 
my feet— 

Back in old Calhoun! 

(What’s the use of all this grievin’?) 

Back in old Calhoun! 

—See, the transport is a-leavin’. 

Leaves some of us kind o’ starey. 

...I’d die happy, if they’d carry 
What there’s left of me to bury 
Back to old Calhoun! 

The Century, 1905. 


SAMARITAN 

’Twas down on the road to Jericho, 

Faring, I fell among thieves, one day. 
They beat me down with many a blow— 
Spoiled me and bound me and there I lay, 
Too sick and sore for to even pray 

And nobody knew if I lived or died— 
With never a careless glance my way, 

Love passed by on the other side. 



FRANK PRESTON SMART 


315 


And there in the road to Jericho— 

F air town of my soul, that I might not see!— 

I railed at the fate that had used me so 
And cursed the curse that had come on me. 

It was cold and the rain fell drearily— 

Ah, how I wrung my hands and cried! 

The day it was dark as the night could be, 
When Love passed by on the other side. 

But down the road from Jericho * 

One came riding that rode not by; 

He helped my hurts and he soothed my woe 
And lodged me safe at a tavern nigh. 

My sight waxed clear as my eyes grew dry 
And I knew him then, and I bade him bide; 

Love—for without him] what were I! 

Who passed by on the other side? 

Copyright by Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1905. 


BUNYAN IN PRISON 

A-many lay with him in Bedford jail— 

Cutthroats and thieves and women of the street; 
Spawn of all evil sprawled about his feet, 

The while he dreamed his Dream and told his Tale. 

What mattered it to him? Within the pale 
Of those four w r alls, him Faithful stopped to greet 
Or with stout Hopeful walked in converse sweet, 
And Christian o’er Apollyon did prevail. 

And so the foul wards widened when he willed— 
Let in a world in little, then, narrowing, grew 
To semblance of the Giant’s dungeon dull; 
Shifted to shapes of vale and mead—or, filled 
With all the Vision’s glory, changed into 
The shining rooms of the House Beautiful. 



316 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

“Then saw I in my dream”—The fair refrain 
Sprinkles the printed page, till we forget 
He had his waking hours, when the fret 
Of fear that just missed madness teased his brain. 
Travailing with his own peculiar pain, 

In every path his Pilgrim knew, he set 
Feet that might stumble, but linger not, and yet 
Knew not the end—that was the Dream again! 

What wonder, in his book, the Valley grim 
Stretches ere rise the Mounts Delectable, 

And the Slough lies before Emmanuel’s Land, 

Full many a league? God’s peace cam,e late to him 
Who trod the road from Earth to Heaven, and spanned 
With his rack’d soul the gulf ’twixt Heaven and Hell. 

Putwxm’s Magazine, 1909. 


ROBERT LANDON PEMBERTON 


R obert Landon Pemberton was born in Lancashire, 
England, March 9, 1860. When he was three 
years old, he came with his parents to the United 
States. He has been a resident of West Virginia since 
1870. 

Though he never had the opportunity to attend any 
other than a village school, at the age of fifteen he en¬ 
tered one of the most efficient of educational institutions, 
a country newspaper office, and has been engaged in 
newspaper and printing work ever since with the ex¬ 
ception of a few years, during which he taught. He has 
been editor of The St. Mary’s Oracle for some years. 
He is also a member of the Pleasants County bar. Mr. 
Pemberton has found time, in spite of his duties as a 
newspaper man, to spend in the study of languages, and, 
without the assistance of a teacher, has acquired a con¬ 
siderable knowledge of Greek, Latin, and French. 

He has served a term as superintendent of schools 
of Pleasants County, and, in 1911, represented his coun¬ 
ty in the State Legislature. 

Mr. Pemberton has been a regular contributor to 
various newspapers, and is the author of a number of 
short stories and a few serials. He has published two 
volumes of verse, “Songs in Merry Mood” and “Ran¬ 
dom Rhymes” and has written enough verse besides to 
fill several such volumes. His poems show him to be 
a poet of no little ability. His reputation as a writer 
of humorous verse received the recognition of his being 
elected a member of the American Press Humorists’ As¬ 
sociation at its second session. 

DOWN LONG RUN 
Down Long Run fair flowers grow: 

Lily, iris, quaker lady, 

Trillium, too, as pure as snow, 

Hunting nook retired and shady; 

317 


318 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Bluebell, nodding graciously, 

Laurel, dark-leaved, thick and glossy; 

Delicate anemone, 

Peeping from a covert mossy. 

Down Long Run the water flows, 

Gliding, dancing, leaping madly; 

Jeweled, in the sun it glows, 

Smiling here, there laughing gladly; 

Tinkling over rapids here, 

There it rushes deep and narrow; 

Famous for wee boats to steer— 

Shooting rapids swift as arrow. 

Down Long Run the red birds sing 
Songs of springtime, true and tender; 

Cedar birds delight to swung 

From the tips of branches slender; 

You may hear the merry thrush 

Cheer his kind with new ambitions,— 

Tree and shrub and tangled brush 
Are alive wuth gray musicians. 

Dovul Long Run is many a thought 
To be gathered for the seeking; 

Vagrant fancies to be caught 

While Dame Nature does the speaking; 

Fancies that in after life 

Come to bring their meed of pleasure, 

When the heart is sick of strife 
And the soul digs up its treasure. 

From Random Rhymes, 1904. 

THE VETERANS 

’Tw r as more than forty years ago 
When first they heard the sound 
Of fife and drum, bidding them come 
To seek the battle ground. 

Their hearts v T ere stout, their hopes were 
high, 


ROBERT LANDON PEMBERTON 


319 


Their feet kept perfect time— 

With “Hep!” and “Hep!” each measured 
step 

Marked off the rolling rhyme. 

Their hearts were stout—what though they left 
Home, friend, and love behind? 

Before them lay bright Honor’s way, 

By patriots defined. 

So to the sound of fife and drum 
They marched, where fate decreed; 

For home and friend and love to spend 
Their lives, if there were need. 

The heavy musket lost its weight 
When charging on the foe; 

With ringing yell they fought or fell, 

Their very souls aglow; 

They knew not life, they knew not death, 

Knew nothing, save that there 

Were foes to fight and wrongs to right 
And glorious flags to bear. 

And when the fife and drum came back 
From victory well earned, 

But few of those who sought their foes, 

In rhythmic step returned; 

Wounds and disease had sapped the strength 
From many stalwart forms, 

And many lay in southern clay, 

Secure from further storms. 

The blue-clad heroes now are old 
And bent with weight of years; 

Their thoughts are flown to friends long gone, 
Their eyes are filled with tears; 

They wait the time when they will join 
The host that’s gone before ; 

With faltering feet they tread the street 
And dream of days of yore. 


320 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

But sound once more the fife and drum): 

Behold! Erect and tall, 

Their eyes ablaze with fighting craze 
The veterans hear the call! 

Again they feel the surging blood 
Rush tingling as of old; 

"With “Hep!” and “Hep!” each measured step 
Rings true as purest gold. 

From Random Rhymes, 1904. 


NIMROD 

And it’s 0 for the feel of an old pair of shoes, 

"Well worn at the heel and bulged out at the side, 
With a slouchy old coat that a tramp would refuse, 

And a hat that my better half long has decried! 

Then it’s off to the hill 
For the wild lust to kill, 

Has enslaved me and drags me about at its will. 

And it’s woe to the quail and the scared cotton-tail! 

And it’s woe to the squirrel that perches on high! 
For I’m off to the hill on the hunter’s lone trail, 

With a smile on my lip, but with blood in my eye! 

Up the hill and down dale 
I will follow the trail, 

And return with my game wadded up in a bale! 

Oh ! I’m Nimrod the Great! But I don’t hunt in state, 
With a pack of loud yelpers to rout out the game; 

I depart before breakfast, get back rather late, 

And so I preserve without trouble my fame; 

For my neighbors all know 
That a long time ago 

I returned with a couple of squirrels or so. 

From Songs in Merry Mood, 1907. 



ROBERT LANDON PEMBERTON 


321 


CATCHING THE TRAIN 
We’re all in a flurry, 

Great bustle and worry, 

Quick question for this and for that. 

“Where are the valises?” 

I’ve got ’em—two pieces: 

“Stop, John! You’re forgetting your hat! 
Is my hat on straight now?” 

Come on—we are late now! 

“Oh, John, did you put out the cat?” 

At last we are ready, 

Come on, now; hold, steady! 

It’s dark on the steps after night. 

What’s that? “It is raining!” 

Well, no use complaining: 

Umbrellas are strapped good and tight. 

Of course, dear, you knew it— 

You told me to do it— 

Can’t get ’em until there’s a light. 

“If we had a hack now!” 

Too late to go back now— 

It’s time for the train to be here; 

In less than a minute 
We both shall be in it 
And laughing at this mad career. 

Step lively! Fly faster ! 

Humph! Call this disaster? 

It’s fun if you think so, my dear! 

Hurrah! Here’s the station! 

What’s that ? Desperation ! 

We’ve got one hour-forty to wait! 

“What good was our dashing 
And miid-puddle splashing? 

But that has been always our fate!” 

By George! Say, that’s funny! 

Forgot all my money! 

It’s lucky the train is so late! 

From Songs in Merry Mood , 1907. 


HARRY LAMBRIGHT SNYDER 


arry Lambright Snyder was born in Shepherds- 



11 town, West Virginia, October 11, 1861. He is the 
son of John Snyder, a native of Saarbrucken, 
Bavaria, Germany, and of Rachel (Lambright) Snyder 
who w r as born at Frederick, Maryland. 

Mr. Snyder was educated in the Shepherdstown 
public schools and at Shepherd College. He learned 
the printer’s trade in the office of The Shepherdstown 
Register. He was employed in the United States Gov¬ 
ernment printing office from 1879 to 1882, when he re¬ 
turned to Shepherdstown where he became proprietor, 
editor, and publisher of The Shepherdstown Register, 
which in the forty years of his management has become 
widely known as one of the best edited and most reliable 
newspapers in the state. Mr. Snyder is an editor of un¬ 
usual ability. His editorials are always clear, concise 
and interesting and show a broad and intelligent grasp 
of public affairs. His “Notes by Observer” dealing 
with a variety of subjects, among them the local tradi¬ 
tions and the historical events for which Jefferson 
County is so well known, are so eagerly read that it 
is hoped that he may decide to publish them in book 
fornf. 

Mr. Snyder was, for eight years, a most efficient 
member of the State Board of Regents of the Normal 
Schools of West Virginia and has served as a member 
of the Board of Directors of the Hospital for the Insane 
at Spencer. He has also been for years very active in 
the work of the Lutheran Church of which he is a mem¬ 
ber. 

On April 29, 1884, he married Miss Ida Baldwin of 
Philadelphia who died July 28, 1907. Mrs. Snyder was 
a woman of unusual charm and of such lovely character 
that her influence is felt yet in the lives of those who 
had the privilege of knowing her. Five children were 


322 


HARRY LAMBRIGHT SNYDER 323 

born to Mr. and Mrs. Snyder: Louise Anna, a graduate 
of Goucher, and now Mrs. Lawrence Moore Lynch of 
Garden City, New York; William Baldwin who in the 
World War served fourteen months in France, and who 
is now manager and local editor of The Shepherdstown 
Register; Rose Eleanor, now Mrs. Franklin Lyne of 
Shepherdstown; Rachel, at home; and Harry Lam- 
bright, Jr., a graduate of West Virginia University 
where he made a brilliant record as a student and as a 
participant in the various college activities. 

WEST VIRGINIA 

From where the rippling Shenandoah, fairest Daughter 
of the Stars, 

By the toil of countless ages has torn down her rocky 
bars— 

From the vineyards of the Valley and its fields of wheat 
and corn, 

From the land of wine and honey, ruthless from its 
mother torn— 

From our splendid western borders, facing toward the 
setting sun, 

That with so great toil and danger from their savage 
hosts were won, 

Where the mighty, broad Ohio, flowing on so strong and 
free, 

Bears the commerce of an empire from the mountains to 
the sea— 

From the stern and rugged counties stretched along our 
northern line, 

Where men grow tall and sturdy, like their hemlock and 
their pine, 

And the busy hum of industry from workshop and from 
mill 

Tells of Genius’s great triumphs and Labor’s wondrous 
skill— 


324 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


And from our southern boundary, where lie the sunny 
fields, 

And the earth her richest treasures to the delving miner 
yields, 

Where the iron horse, shrilly shrieking, starts the eagle 
from his crag, 

And the axe of spoiling woodman sounds where roam¬ 
ed the bear and stag— 

Aye! from every hill and valley, from mountain and 
from plain, 

Swells forth the splendid chorus, telling in its proud re¬ 
frain 

The grand achievements of a people who by divine de¬ 
cree 

Have Progress as their watchword, their motto-, “ Moun¬ 
taineers Are Free!” 

In the days of the beginning, ere mankind was given 
birth, 

The Creator with His riches filled the breast of Mother 
Earth. 

In His wisdom and His goodness vastest treasures there 
were stored, 

Waiting silent through the ages human effort to reward. 

And of this great beneficence, so regally prepared, 

Our State above all other States the bounties rich has 
shared. 

Our valleys, fair and fertile, yield their products of the 
best, 

The cattle on our thousand hills find rich pastures tq 
the crest. 

Our forests of primeval growth in great, unmeasured 
tracts, 

Still thickly stand and yet invite the ever-conquering 
axe. 

The giants of the centuries, the maple, oak and pine, 

Await the stroke that lays them low, each for its own 
design. 


HARRY LAMBRIGHT SNYDER 


32& 


And through the hills and mountains with certainty we 
trace 

Great dusky veins of splendid coal, God’s best gift to 
the race. 

The latent force and energy, a million years compressed, 

Burst forth to move a universe, obeying man’s behest. 

Even from the bowels of the earth gush forth for human 
use 

Thick streams of oil, unfailing as the widow’s ancient 
cruse, 

While flames as strange as ever burned at Mystic’s altar 
fire, 

Press up from Nature’s reservoirs and yield to man’s 
desire. 

Oh! such blessings ne’er were given to a sovereign state 
before! 

Opportunity ne’er opened half so wide her golden door! 

For the resolute and faithful, the industrious and strong, 

The harvest rich is waiting to reward the striving throng. 

But ’tis not our rich resources that shall make us truly 
great. 

Men of brains and strength and virtue still must con¬ 
stitute the state. 

Noble aims and high endeavor, patriotic deeds and pure, 

Must be woven in our building if the structure shall 
endure. 

Our ambitions must be tempered by desire to do the 
right—• 

Greed of gold and power our best efforts often blight. 

Neglectful of our duty to our God and fellow men, 

Our laurel wreaths shall wither and return to dust again. 

Let our uplands lift us higher, till our very being thrills 

With the sweetness and the grandeur of our West Vir¬ 
ginia hills; 


326 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


And the privilege of living in earth's choicest dwelling 
place 

Shall make us blest through all the ages o’er the others 
of our race. 

So with our lovely women, as virtuous as fair, 

And our men of pure ideals, ready each his part to 
bear, 

We’ll form a grand dominion, patriotic, clean and 
strong, 

That shall stand for truth and justice and perpetuate 
no wrong. 

Then, all hail to West Virginia! Forward march! with 
steady stride! 

In faith and hope and wisdom may our ship e’er safely 
glide. 

And through the ages yet to come let the world our 
progress see, 

And revere our stainless motto, ‘‘Mountaineers Are 
Always Free! ’ ’ 


JOHN S. HALL 


J ohn S. Hall was born in Laporte County, Indiana, 
September 15, 1845. Four years later, his family 
moved to Bond’s Creek, West Virginia. Having 
enlisted in 1863 as a teamster in the Fourth Brigade of 
Tennessee, he became seriously ill while on the march 
with Sherman to the sea, and was sent to a hospital in 
Nashville, Tennessee, where he spent many weary months 
of illness which resulted in his becoming blind. 

Later he entered the Institution for the Blind at 
Columbus, Ohio, from which he was graduated in 1868. 
After his graduation, he engaged in teaching for a time. 
He also studied law and was admitted to the bar, though 
he never engaged in the practice of the profession. 

In 1878, with Minus P. Prettyman, he founded The 
St. Mary’s Observer , and, in 1881, he began the publica¬ 
tion of The Oracle of which he was editor until 1885, 
when he retired. 

In 1907, Mr. Hall published “Musings of a Quiet 
Hour,” in the preface of which he says: “When I first 
began writing verse, I had no thought of putting out a 
book. The thoughts came to me in quiet hours, and I 
put them down in rhyme, partly for pastime and partly 
to please my own fancy. The importunities of some of 
my intimate friends are responsible for their publica¬ 
tion.” 

In Mr. Hall’s little volume are “Bond’s Creek,” 
“The Old Homestead,” “The Brook in the Wildwood,” 
and a number of other poems inspired by familiar local 
scenes, dear to the poet and to his friends. 

THE FLUTTER MILL 
They say I’m growing old, Harlan, 

I scarce can think it so, 

Yet memory takes me back to scenes 
Of fifty years ago, 

327 


328 STORIES AND VERSE OP WEST VIRGINIA 


When you and I were boys together, 
And played beside the rill 
That wandered near the old farm house, 
And turned our flutter mill. 


The rill, it runs to brook and creek, 
And to the river wide, 

Until within the ocean deep 
It mingles with the tide. 

How like the stream of life it is! 

At first a rippling rill, 

Then wandering on ’mid shifting scenes 
It turns our flutter mill. 


We still are playing ’long this stream, 
They call it business now, 

The difference seems but in the name, 
’Tis much the same I Tow. 

We strive for fortune and for fame, 
’Tis all for pleasure still, 

For work is only grown up play, 
And life a flutter mill. 


We launch our bark in childish play, 

We drift or push along 
O’er riffles swift, through eddying pools, 
And currents deep and strong, 

And out on life’s expanded sea 
Whose surface ne’er is still, 

The restless motion of the waves 
Now turns our flutter mill. 


No castles built however grand 
In interest can compare 
With those we built beside that rill— 
Our castles in the air. 


JOHN S. HALL 


329 


Amid the hum of enterprise 
The ripple of that rill 
Still echoes in my heart, as when 
It turned our flutter mill. 

We may be growing old, Harlan. 

I scarce can think it, though, 

For every ripple of that rill 
Brings back the long ago. 

Each dimpled wave that sported there 
Still makes my heart to thrill, 

As in those barefoot days we watched 
It turn our flutter mill. 


t 


GEORGE WESLEY ATKINSON 


eorge Wesley Atkinson, son of Colonel James and 



Miriam (Rader) Atkinson, was born on a farm 
on Elk River in Kanawha County, West Virginia, 
June 29,1845. A^fter receiving careful preparatory edu¬ 
cation, he entered Ohio Wesleyan University from which 
he received an A.B. degree in 1870, and an M.A. degree 
in 1873. He studied law in Howard University from 
which he was graduated in 1874. He practiced law in 
Wheeling from his admission to the bar in 1875 until he 
was elected governor of West Virginia in 1897. 

Judge Atkinson has had the honor of having con¬ 
ferred upon him the degree of LL. D. by the University 
of Nashville, Ohio Wesleyan University and the U. S. 
Grant University, the degree of D. C. L. by West Vir¬ 
ginia University, and the Ph. D. degree by Mount Vernon 
College, Ohio. 

Few West Virginians have had so many official posi¬ 
tions as Judge Atkinson. He has been a life-long Re¬ 
publican, and has tilled with distinction many important 
offices to which he has been either elected or appointed. 
Among these were member of the Legislature of West 
Virginia, county superintendent of public schools, post¬ 
master of Charleston, United States Internal Revenue 
officer, United States Marshal of West Virginia, mem¬ 
ber of the fifty-first Congress, 1889-1891; governor of 
West Virginia from 1897 to 1901; United States Attor¬ 
ney for the Southern District of West Virginia from 
1901 to 1905; and from 1905 to 1916 judge of the United 
States Court of Claims. Few men who have held public 
office have been so highly esteemed as has Judge Atkin¬ 
son. He is a ready and eloquent orator, and it is said 
that no other West Virginian has appeared as speaker 
on so many occasions as he. 

Judge Atkinson is also a versatile writer and is the 
author of books on a variety of subjects. He has writ- 


330 


GEORGE WESLEY ATKINSON 


331 


ten a great deal of verse, although he has published but 
one volume of poems, “Chips and Whetstones.” 

Judge Atkinson has been twice married. His first 
wife was Ellen Eagan, a member of an old Kanawha 
family. She died in 1893, the mother of five children. 
On June 24, 1897, he married Mrs. Myra Horner Cam¬ 
den, widow of the late Judge G. D. Camden of Clarks¬ 
burg. Since his retirement, Judge Atkinson and his 
wife have lived in Charleston, West Virginia. 

OUR RECORDS 

As melts the snow beneath the sun, 

So vanish words when spoken; 

We soon forget the deeds we’ve done, 

The promises we’ve broken. 

We seem to feel all wrong acts die 
As soon as they’re forgotten; 

Ah! vain the thought—it is a lie, 

And of the wish begotten. 

For, silent as the snowflakes fall, 

A record we are writing 

Of all our acts, the great, the small, 

And every fault indicting. 

Unlike the snow that melts away, 

Those lines with all their shading 

Are written once and yet for aye— 

That record is unfading. 

God pity all who fearless are 
Of records not inviting, 

Which in His Book so white and fair, 

The many now are writing. 

A record not for time alone, 

That all mankind are framing, 

In sun or shade, should every one, 

For nobler deeds be aiming. 


332 STORIES AND VERSE OP WEST VIRGINIA 


As clean as snow, as dear as gold, 
Thine actions all recorded; 

The Judge will come, the scroll unfold, 
And thou unit be rewarded:— 

A passport true to endless rest, 

In heaven’s own light and glory, 
We’ll read it there among the blest, 
And oft repeat the story. 

So write: and no false entry ntake; 

Nor blot nor blur shall never 
A joy from thee or others take, 

For ever and for ever. 


A SUMMER SONG AMID THE HILLS 

I sat on the wall of a mineral spring, 

The scarlet old sun sinking low in the west; 

A red-breasted robin with deep brownish wing, 

With voice all melodious in song led the rest 

In the chorus which came from the shadowy Rill, 
While the creek murmured on to the creaking, old mill. 

There were myriads of birds in that musical throng 
Ever vying with others to make themselves heard; 

And the cows in the meadow were hurried along 

In response to the call—the old milkman’s one word— 

And the bell of the shepherd had called his flock home, 
And all drank ’neath the dam of the fluttering foam. 

The old sun disappeared behind hills in the west, 

And the birds flew away to their own woodland homes, 

Whilst the sheep and the cows lay contented at rest 
Along side of the hills, with their towering domes; 

But the mill ground away with a noisy old roll, 

As the miller within doubtless took out his toll. 


GEORGE WESLEY ATKINSON 


333 


Ghostly, shadowy figures of vapor arose 

From the water so still far above the old dam; 

All of Nature around me had sunk to repose— 

E ’en the crystaline water flowed stealthy and calm 
O’er the dam by the mill, as it sped like a dream, 

To commingle at length in a mightier stream. 

’Twas a summer of gladness ’mid gladsome old hills, 
And of visions forgotten so long, long ago,— 

Of a moon-wrought-out marvel the which Nature yet 
fills 

With the glamour, the glow, and the after-while glow; 
’Twas a song of the summer so charmed o’er and o’er 
Of bright visions profound, that will come never 
more. 


GEORGIAN A GODDARD KING 


G eorgiana Goddard King was born at West Columbia, 
West Virginia, August 5, 1871. She went to New 
York to live while she was so young that she has 
a very dim remembrance of her West Virginia home. 
In 1880 she went to Norfolk, Virginia. She entered 
Bryn Mawr in the autumn of 1892, after which time she 
did not return to her home in Norfolk except for vaca¬ 
tions. After spending six years at college she went 
abroad for a year and on her return resided in New 
York city until 1906, when she became a member of the 
faculty of Bryn Mawr, where she is now professor of 
the History of Art. Since her return to Bryn Mawr 
Miss King has spent two years abroad in the study of 
Mediaeval Archaeology and the History of Art. Her 
instructors in these subjects were Mr. Bernard Bereusa 
and the Spanish architect, Sr. Lamperez. 

Miss King has contributed articles to The Journal 
of the American Institute of Architects, The Journal of 
the American Archaeological Association, The Art Bul¬ 
letin, Art and Archaeology, and Arquitectura, a Spanish 
monthly. She has also published a number of exquisite 
poems in Scribner’s Magazine, McClure’s Magazine, the 
Bryn Mawr Lantern, and other publications. She is the 
author of an allegorical poen}, “The Way of Perfect 
Love,” which is regarded by critics as a literary work 
of rare distinction. This poem contains many exquisite 
songs. A review says of Miss King’s poem: “It would 
never serve to read on the elevated railroad, the place, 
of course, where most books and magazines and nearly 
all newspapers, are read and duly written and adapted 
for such reading; but if there are any who read in col¬ 
lege cloisters, or in lonely turrets, or spend long sunny 
afternoons on sandy banks within sound of the sea, or 
wherever hills break the sky-line and trees shut off the 
works of man, to them ‘The Way of Perfect Love,’ will 


334 


GEORGIANA GODDARD KING 335 

open and send forth the secret.” 

Miss King is the author of a number of other works, 
among them “Comedies and Legends for Marionettes,” 
“The Way of St. James,” “The Military Orders in 
Spain,” “The Play of the Sybil Casandra,” and “A Citi¬ 
zen of the Twilight.” She is also the editor of several 
works on architecture. 


THE CALL 

Something calls and whispers, along the city street, 
Through shrill cries of children and soft stir of feet, 
Till sunlights slant and dazzle, and airs breathe 
rare and fine:— 

The mountains are calling; the winds wake the pine. 

Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near 
The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear. 

Yet scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and 
tree, 

The deep boom of surges, the gray waste of sea. 

Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close, 
On bright brows of ladies to garland the rose, 

But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world, 
The still light of planets and the star-swarms whirled. 

“A MAN CALLED DANTE, I HAVE HEARD” 

A man called Dante, I have heard, 

Once ranged the country-side, 

He knew to dawn’s mysterious word 
What drowsy birds replied; 

He knew the deep sea’s voice, its gleams 
And tremulous lights afar. 

When he lay down at night, in dreams 
He tramped from star to star. 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


HYLAS 

Dear to the sailor-kings, 
Bronze-bearded, steadfast-hearted, 

Oars’ dash, when galley swings 
Black through the gray waves parted. 
But they said: “Make the cove 
Where breathes a moonless grove, 

And larks hang glad 

O’er pebbly pools and sweet; 

He sickens with the heat, 

Our little lad.” 

So they call, the gold-browed kings, 

‘ ‘ Hylas, Hylas, Hylas! ’ ’ clear; 

And Alcides’ great voice rings— 

For he loved the brown child dear. 

He left the blue profound 
To follow winding valleys; 

He lost the surf’s faint sound 
In aspen-shivering alleys. 

Besides the freshes cold 
He found white fingers hold 
His brown hand hot; 

He heard an elfin song; 

The dark kings waited long, 

But he came not. 

Yet they call him from the shore, 
“Hylas, Hylas, Hylas!” thrice; 

But Alcides sails no more, 
Remembering the drowned child’s eyes. 

COMPLINE 

When in my bed myself I lay 
I have not bent my head to pray 
For all on whom dim troubles lie 
Or give God thanks for streams and sky; 


GEORGIANA GODDARD KING 


337 


But with hands folded on my breast 
And thought a moment laid at rest 
Like saint who every night will sign 
On brow and bosom the cross divine, 

So I, with inward peace the same, 

Say twice or thrice a single name 
Then add: Dear heart, this farther day 
That's passed since in your arms I lay. 

Falls not aside, a pebble cast 
To swell the cairn above our past; 

Nay, goes to build the palace wide 
In which our dreams together bide, 

Fond stewards! who but occupy 
Till the glad hour when thou and I 
Through sunrise and through sunset’s doors 
Treading its so-long-yearned-for floors 
Sleep in the fragrant halls thereof 
With but one guest, and that third, Love. 

Scribner’s Magazine, 1919. 


EVERARD JACK APPLETON 


E verard Jack Appleton was born in Charleston, West 
Virginia, in 1872. He spent most of his life until 
he was twenty-three years of age in Monroe 
County, West Virginia. Mr. Appleton gives the follow¬ 
ing account of himself and his activities: “I have writ¬ 
ten and had published nearly two hundred short stories 
and tons and tons of jokes and verse. For years 1 ran 
a daily column in a Cincinnati newspaper. In 1895, I 
married the real Woman Who Understands. I have 
considerable, though sometimes submerged, spirit of 
cheerfulness, kept alive by Mrs. Appleton. I am broken 
irreparably in body, but still have a saving sense of 
humor, and this bad health is a joke—on me!” 

Mr. Appleton is the author of two books of poetry 
“With the Colors,” a volume of World War verse, and 
‘ ‘ The Quiet Courage and Other Songs of the Unafraid, ’ 7 
which was published in 1912, and which is now in its third 
edition. The Chicago Record-Herald says of this book: 

‘ ‘ This is a heartening little volume, insistent with manly 
faith and courage. A good book to put in the pocket, trav¬ 
eling satchel and the heart. ’ ’ Mr. Appleton's best known 
poems are “The Fighting Failure” and “The Woman 
Who Understands,” both of which appeared in 1909 
in a Cincinnati newpaper for which he was an edi¬ 
torial writer. “The Woman Who Understands” has 
been reprinted in newspapers and magazines all over 
the world. Examples of Mr. Appleton's work are in¬ 
cluded in “It Can Be Done,” an anthology published 
by Sully and Company, and in Burton Egbert Steven¬ 
son's “The Home Book of Verse.” 


338 


EVERARD JACK APPLETON 


339 


THE FIGHTING FAILURE 

He has come the way of the fighting men, and fought 
by the rules of the Game. 

And out of Life he has gathered—What? A living,— 
and little fame. 

Ever and ever the Goal looms near,—seeming each time 
worth while; 

But ever it proves a mirage fair—ever the grim gods 
smile. 

And so, with lips hard set and white, he buries the hope 
that is gone,— 

His fight is lost—and he knows it is lost—and yet he is 
fighting on. 

Out of the smoke of the battle-line watching men win 
their way, 

Aaid, cheering with those who cheer success, he enters 
again the fray, 

Licking the blood and dust from his lips, wiping the 
sweat from his eyes, 

He does the work he is set to do and—“ therein honor 
lies.” 

Brave they were, those men he cheered,—theirs is the 
winners ’ thrill; 

His fight is lost—and he knows it is lost—and yet he is 
fighting still. 

And those who won, have rest and peace; and those who 
died have more; 

Bnt, weary and spent, he cannot stop seeking the ulti¬ 
mate score; 

Courage was theirs for a little time,—but what of the 
mian who sees 

That lose he must, yet will not beg for mercy upon his 
knees ? 

Side by side with grim Defeat, he struggles at dusk or 
dawn,— 

His fight is lost—and he knows it is lost—and yet he is 
fighting on. 


340 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Praise for the warriors who succeed, and tears for the 
vanquished dead; 

The world will hold them close to her heart, wreathing 
each honored head, 

But there in the ranks, soul-sick, time-tired, he battles 
against the odds, 

Sans hope, but true to his colors torn, the plaything of 
the gods! 

Uncover when he goes by, at last! Held to his task by 
will 

The fight is lost—and he knows it is lost—and yet he is 
fighting still! 

THE WOMAN WHO UNDERSTANDS 

Somewhere she waits to make you win, your soul in her 
firm, white hands —* 

Somewhere the gods have made for you, the Woman 
Who Understands! 

As the tide Went out she found him 
Lashed to a spar of Despair, 

The wreck of his Ship around him— 

The wreck of his Dreams in the air; 

Found him and loved him and gathered 
The soul of him close to her heart— 

The soul that had sailed an uncharted sea, 

The soul that had sought to win and be free— 

The soul of which she was part! 

And there in the dusk she cried to the man, 
“Win your battle—you can, you can!” 

Broken by Fate, unrelenting, 

Scarred by the lashings of Chance; 

Bitter his heart—unrepenting— 

Hardened by Circumstance; 

Shadowed by F'ailure ever, 

Cursing, he would have died, 

But the touch of her hand, her strong warm hand, 


EVERARD JACK APPLETON 


341 


And her love of his sonl, took full command, 

Just at the turn of the tide! 

Standing beside him, filled with trust, 
“Win!” she whispered, “you must, you 
must! ’ ’ 

Helping and loving and guiding, 

Urging when that were best, 

Holding her fears in hiding 
Deep in her quiet breast; 

This is the woman who kept him 
True to his standards lost, 

When, tossed in the storm and stress of strife*, 

He thought himlself through with the game of life 
And ready to pay the cost. 

Watching and guarding, whispering still, 
“Win you can—and you will, you will!” 

.This is the story of ages, 

This is the Woman’s way; 

Wiser than seers or sages, 

Lifting us day by day; 

Pacing all things with a courage 
Nothing can daunt or dim, 

Treading Life’s path, wherever it leads— 

Lined with flowers or choked with weeds, 

But ever with him—with him! 

Guidon—comrade—golden spur —• 

The men who win are helped by her! 

Somewhere she waits, strong in belief, your sonl in her 
firm, white hands — 

Thanh well the gods, when she comes to you — the 
Woman Who Understands! 

COMPENSATION 

(The Little Invalid’s Confession) 

My head hurts orful bad, and when I lay 
Plat down in bed, and see the birds and sky 
I wisht that I could run out doors and play— 



342 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Or leave my body here and fly—and fly! 

I gotter pain ’most every place what is, 

And when I try to set up, somethin’ goes 

Jest like a pin-wheel in my head—sizz!—sizz !— 
And I kin feel it clear down to my toes. 

Yet bein’ sick is not so bad, some ways— 
Nobody has said, “Don’t!” to me for days! 

Ma moves around the room jest like an elf, 

Till sometimes I don’t know she’s rfeally there; 

And then I tell long stories to myself 
* Until she comes and smooths my cheeks and hair. 

“What is it, dear?” she asks me, soft and low, 
And then I ketch her hand and kiss it—quick— 

And tell her I don’t ’member—or don’t know 
What makes her turn so fast and look away ? 
She’s never once said, “Don’t!” to me to-day! 

The doctor telled her some day I’d be well, 

And said that I was good to lay so still; 

He ain’t that pleasant always; I kin tell 
That ma has ast him if I “truly will.” 

And so, when I hurt worse—sometimes I do— 

I don’t say so to her—’t would make her get 

Discouraged with me, and feel awful blue; 

So I jest keep my mouth and eyes tight shet. 

Ma is so good to me! She has n’t said 
Don't!' ’ to me once since they put me to bed! 



BLANCHE A. WHEATLEY 


B lanche A. Wheatley is a native of Bolivar, West 
Virginia, and is the daughter of George W. Wheat- 
ley and Elizabeth (Hickey) Tacey Wheatley, the 
former a native of Hull, England, and the latter of Fair¬ 
fax County, Virginia. While a mere girl she married, 
Walter B. Wheatley who died four years after his mar¬ 
riage, leaving his wife with an infant son to rear. This 
son served with distinction in the World War as chief 
coder and private secretary to General Tasker Bliss. He 
is at present naturalization examiner for the Federal 
Government at San Antonio, Texas. 

Mrs. Wheatley gives the following characteristic ac¬ 
count of herself: I am living in my native town, keep¬ 
ing house and making a home for my half-brother, who 
has been a father to me and my boy. Handicapped by 
frail health since childhood, I prefer the peace and quiet of 
my village home; but now and then, when there’s a cam¬ 
paign involving measures in which I am especially inter¬ 
ested, I 1 break out’ and work like ‘all possessed’—and 
invariably pay for my strenuousness with a siege in bed. 
I have a public school education supplemented by home 
study; am an inveterate reader, a verse-writer and news¬ 
paper contributor; a pen-and-ink-artist of some ability, 
and a real homebody skilled in every domestic art, in¬ 
cluding flower culture. I am, in fact, a ‘ Jill-of-all-trades- 
and-mistress-of-none. ’ I know that my pastry is supe¬ 
rior to my poems, and that my talent in trimming hats 
exceeds that which my sketches show. I am the poorest 
talker in the world, but the best listener extant. In re¬ 
ligion, I am non-denominational; in politics, Republic¬ 
an ; an ardent patriot, prohibitionist and suffragist. I 
have written quite a good deal along these lines, partic¬ 
ularly for the Prohibition cause as a member of the West 
Virginia Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. I 
don’t like public work, and never engage in it until my 

343 


344 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


conscience pushes me off the edge of my retreat and 
literally makes me fight.” 

Mrs. Wheatley has written verse from her child¬ 
hood and is well-known locally as the Bolivar Bard. 
Her verse has frequently appeared in newspapers and 
in other publications, and has found a number of inter¬ 
ested and appreciative readers. 

MIDSUMMER 

Cobwebs on the grass at morn, 

Mountains veiled in purple haze; 

Whispering winds thro’ tasseled corn 
Usher in the August days. 

Opal clouds in sapphire skies; 

Catbirds calling loud and clear; 

Gaily-painted butterflies 
Floating thro’ the languorous air. 

Flaming rows of hollyhocks 
Flaunt defiance to the sun; 

Murmuring bees ’mong purple phlox 
Toil till day’s last hour is done. 

High upon the locust bough 
Sits a minstrel tireless, gay; 

Hark! cicada’s day is now— 

Shrill, insistent, sounds his lay. 

Dark and cool the shadows fall 
Where contented cattle herd; 

Green the ivy on the wall, , 

Sheltering many a nesting bird. 

Tall and blue the thistles stand, 

Armored soldiers by the way; 

Queen Anne’s-Lace decks all the land,, 
Swaying where light breezes stray. 


BLANCHE A. WHEATLEY 


345 


Slumbrous noontide of the year, 

Cradled soft ’mid drooping flowers; 
Myriad insect voices clear 

Time the march of golden hours. 

EVENTIDE 

(Lullaby) 

The shadows steal over the hill, 

And star-lamps are lit in the sky, 

Wee birds in tree-cradles are still, 

The breath of sweet briar floats by; 

Then close thy sweet eyelids, my love, 

And mother will loving watch keep 
While baby in dreamland shall rove, 

Beyond the bright portals of sleep. 

Sweetest-and-Best! 

Safe on my breast, 

To Slumberland hie thee away; 

Dearest-of-All! 

Dream-fairies call: 

“Oh, come, little baby, and play.” 

The dewdrops bespangle the rose, 

And flits the light moth through the air; 
And down where the green willow grows 
The frog chants his vesper hymn clear. 
Like violets washed with the rain 

Sweet baby-eyes droop ’neath the spell 
Of dream-fairies’ witching refrain: 

“Oh come where the dream-fairies dwell.” 

Sweetest-and-Best! 

Take thou thy rest, 

And mother will watch lovingly; 

Dearest-of-All! 

Dream-fairies call: 

“We wait, little baby, for thee.” 


346 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


THE TRICKSTER 
One day Love gave a cup to me, 

And wonderingly, I sipped the draught— 
So sweet! I quaffed it eagerly, 

Nor marveled that Love laughed., 
and laughed.. . . 

Then Wisdom waved a sad farewell, 

And Peace departed from my side: 

‘ ‘ The wine of heaven hath lees of hell; 

Where love is, we no more abide. ” 

Unmoved, I watched my old friends go— 
Kind friends of all my days a part; 

Then turned, with Love’s sweet fire aglow, 
And clasped the stranger to my heart. 

What cared I then for friends or fears? 

Love whispered, as he closer crept: 

“Their laughter is not worth my tears”— 
And ever since, I’ve wept... and wept. ... 


CLARENCE EVERETT HAWORTH 
larence Everett Haworth, vice-president and pro- 



fessor of literature at Marshall College, is well 

known not only as an educator, but as a physician, 
editor, publisher, and musical composer. Dr. Haworth 
was born at Portland, Ohio, May 10, 1860. He is the son 
of Samuel Milton Haworth and Hannah Louise Ha¬ 
worth. 

He attended the public schools at Ravenswood, 
West Virginia, and in 1878 completed the course of 
study in Colgate Academy. In 1886, he received an A. 
B. degree from Colgate University. He later did grad¬ 
uate work at the University of Chicago, and has an M.A. 
degree. He is a graduate of the Starling Medical School 
of Columbus, Ohio, where he completed his course in 
1885. 

After practicing medicine for ten years, Dr. Ha¬ 
worth with James J. Peters, bought The Huntington 
Herald, of which he became editor. In 1897, he 
became sole editor and owner of the Herald and for 
ten years newspaper work occupied his entire time. In 
1907 he sold the Herald and accepted his present posi¬ 
tion at Marshall College. 

Dr. Haworth has attained distinction as a composer 
of music. He is the author of the words and music of 
the song “West Virginia/’ and sacred compositions for 
the Episcopal service including a “Te Deum,” “Jubi¬ 
late,” “Kyrie Eleison,” and “0, Dear Redeemer.” 
Among his well known songs are “Slumber Song,” 
“Tell Me,” “Roses,” “Love me till I Die,” “At Thy 
Voice,” “At Last,” and “Love Light, Light of My 
Eyes.” He has also written some graceful and pleas¬ 
ing verse. 

Dr. Haworth has been twice married. His first 
wife was Miss Hattie Vinton of Parkersburg, by whom 
he had two sons, Samuel Vinton and James Rodgers. 

In 1903, he married Miss Louise Fay of Massachu¬ 
setts. 


347 


348 STORIES AND VERSE OP WEST VIRGINIA 


THE VIOLET 

0 breath of the violet, warm with the breath of Spring, 
Warm under Indian stars or Ionian skies, 

Bearing me azuring dreams on invisible wing, 

My heart lies a-charm in the deep of thine odorous sighs; 

Sweet breath of the violet! 

0 song of the violet, singing mine eyes into rain, 
Singing of copse and of heather, of lawn and of lea, 
Enchanting the rivulet's brim, the peonied plain, 

Thy madrigals waken within me a wild ecstasy; 

Sweet song of the violet! 

O heart of the violet, heart-beat compelling mine own, 
Pulsing old sagas of mosses, of jonquil and fern, , 
Purfling the brooks and the meadows with daffodils sown, 
Swift to thy fathomless chambers my eager loves turn; 

Sweet heart of the violet! 

TO VERNA PAGE 

Whene’er you play 

The stars send out a warmer light, 

More am’rous grows the caves of night, 
The winged Seraphs flame more bright. 

Whene’er you play 

The orient morn her incense flings, 

The bowl of noon with music rings, 

The votive eve her fragrance brings. 

Whene’er you play 

The listening thrush his note denies, 

The Orphean lute in silence lies, 

And Israfel with envy sighs. 

Whene’er you play 

A lovelier crimson paints the rose, 

A rarer perfume with it blows, 

A happier love within it grows. 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 
lthough the work of a number of authors who are 



/jL not natives of West Virginia, is included in this 
volume, so far as is known, all have considered 
themselves West Virginians during their period of resi¬ 
dence in the State with the exception of Mr. Henry Sydnor 
Harrison who is “a Virginian, born in Tennessee, brought 
up in Virginia and New York.” Much of his important 
literary work, however, including “Queed,” “V. V.’s 
Eyes,” and ‘‘Angela’s Business,” was done while the 
author was living in West Virginia. Of this period Mr. 
Harrison says: ‘‘The fact of my residence in the state for 
seven busy years was, in a sense, an accident. My brother, 
beginning to establish himself as a lawyer, decided to 
move from Richmond to Charleston; my mother and 
sister, having gone out to visit him, eventually decided 
to make their home with him), and when not long after¬ 
wards—in March 1910—I resigned from the Richmond 
Times Dispatch to try to launch myself as a writer, it 
was natural for me to join my family.” 

Mr. Harrison, who is the son of Caskie and Mar¬ 
garet Coleman (Sydnor) Harrison, was born in Se- 
wanee, Tennessee, February 12, 1880. He received his 
education at the Brooklyn Latin School, founded by his 
father, and at Columbia University, where, in 1900, he 
received an A.B. degree, and, in 1913, an M.A. degree. 

Mr. Harrison started his career as a newspaper man 
in September, 1904, as a writer of book reviews for the 
Richmond Times Dispatch, at a salary of five dollars per 
week. At this time he was “experimenting a little with 
the manufacturing business” from which he was, as he 
himself says “getting nothing but experience, and less 
and less of that.” Like Chaucer’s man of law, there 
was “nowhere so busy a man” as Mr. Harrison after he 
became a writer of book reviews. Whether he seemed 
“busier than he was,” he alone knows, but he “wrote 


349 


350 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


such long reviews” and ‘‘carried so many books up and 
down on the suburban trolley” that he “was raised to 
seven dollars a week, almost before you knew it.” 

Soon be was asked by Mr. Bryan, the managing 
owner, to write editorial paragraphs and topical verse 
daily. Although Mr. Harrison confesses that he had 
never before attempted to write verse, and that he “lit¬ 
erally did not know by name” the other phase of his 
‘ k novel responsibility, ’ ’ he made so great a success of his 
work that he became chief editorial writer of the Times 
Dispatch in 1907. He regards his experience in the 
writing of editorial paragraphs as very valuable, though 
in spite of this training in the writing of short pithy 
statements, it has been said of him by some disagreeable 
critic that he “can still take as many words to pass a 
given point as anybody else. 7 ’ 

In May 1911, “Queed,” Mr. Harrison’s first novel, 
was published and won for its author immediate recogni¬ 
tion in the world of letters. Of the many critiques 
written of the book it is said that only one was uncom¬ 
plimentary. A review in The Iyidependent of July 20, 
1911 comments thus on the author and his work: “Mr. 
Henry Syclnor Harrison springs at once, in his first 
novel, into the front rank of the new generation of real¬ 
istic fictionists.There is in the story a new democ¬ 

racy which rather surprises one who thinks of the con¬ 
ditions of democracy in the old South but the author 
wastes little time in explaining the method of exchange 
by which the old has become new. A less clever writer 

would have given many pages to the effort.The book 

is on a high level in its ideals, its broad philosophic 
treatment, in its hopefulness. The writer has perfect 
command of all the resources of his art. The story is 
condensed, rapid, full of mental and moral incident.” 
The New York Post says of Mr. Harrison: “Not since 
Mark Twain has there arisen a novelist, so racily indig¬ 
enous, so animated by the sense of joyous participa¬ 
tion, one whose style, even in its bad qualities is so 
eloquent of its origin in the life of which it deals.’ 7 



HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


351 


“V. V.’s Eyes/’ published 1913, added to the al¬ 
ready enviable reputation of Mr. Harrison as a waiter; 
as have also his later works, “Angela’s Business,” 
“When I Come Back,” and “St. Teresa.” A review 
of “V. V.’s Eyes" in The Literary Digest pays this trib¬ 
ute to the author’s genius: “Since ‘Queed’ appeared 
to herald a new and original writer, the public has been 
looking curiously for a second book from this author’s 
pen, wondering if ‘lightning would strike twice in the 
same spot.’ The new story proves that we are not to 
be disappointed in our faith in Mr. Harrison. While 
we are apt to say tritely enough that ‘there is nothing 
new under the sun,’ these two books rather contradict 
the statement, for in both of them there is something 
new, either in the spirit or treatment of the subject; 
something electrifies the reader and makes him feel that 
he is considering a new subject, or viewing an old one 

in a new light,.The book makes a plea for improved 

factory laws and child-labor legislation, the improve¬ 
ment and uplift of women, but all these subjects are ap¬ 
proached in the natural development of an engrossing 
love story. The arguments are scarcely recognized as 
such, they are so essentially a part of the growth of the 
story. The far-reaching influence of personality is 
beautifully illustrated, with a pathetic and satisfactory 
conclusion.Mr. Harrison’s style is clear and stimu¬ 

lating; there are no hackneyed expressions, and he 
seems to choose the language which brings out his ideas 
most vividly and pointedly.” 

Mr. Harrison is also the author of a number of 
short stories which have appeared in standard maga¬ 
zines. He tells of some very interesting experiences as 
a writer of the short story in his article, “Adventures 
with the Editors” which appeared in The Atlantic 
Monthly. In December 1910, two of his book manu¬ 
scripts were accepted for publication, one an old story 
which was begun five years earlier and which, accord¬ 
ing to the author, accomplished little except the cutting 
of his “literary eye teeth.” The other was “Queed.” 




352 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

In the months between November, 1910, and May, 1911, 
he wrote and sent the publishers eleven stories, only 
three of which were accepted, though one was awarded 
a prize in a contest in which fifteen thousand manu¬ 
scripts were submitted. Five days after “Queed” was 
published, a distinguished New York editor wrote to ask 
if Mr. Harrison did not have some short stories. It 
happened that he had five that had been rejected only 
a short time before by this very editor. The author 
wrote to his admirer that he did not feel that he had 
improved much since the preceding week, when as good 
a story as he knew how to write had been rejected by 
this editor, who then wrote a second letter and then a 
third suggesting that the 'rejected stories be sent back 
“that he might determine whether or not he had a joke 
on his (anonymous) assistants.” In 1912, an editor 
wrote to Mr. Harrison that he and his associates had 
been reading “with a great deal of pleasure and envy” 
his stories in another publication and yet he and his as¬ 
sociates, in 1911 had declined three of the stories that 
they now admired so extravagantly. 

Mr. Harrison feels a kinship with the unknown 
young men and women who “not by lack of merit, but 
only by somebody’s misunderstanding of the secret pass¬ 
words,” have failed “to get over the wall.” He says 
that the manuscript of “Queed” was rejected by the 
first two publishers to w r hom it was offered and if other 
publishers had refused it he “might to this moment have 
remained on the unhappy side of the wall.” 

A writer in The Bookman says: “In appearance 
Mr. Harrison is of medium height, slender, with light 
hair, and merry blue eyes that crinkle up at the corners 
whenever he smiles, which is pretty nearly all the time 
anybody is talking with him. ‘Who’s Who’ says he is 
a bachelor and he admits the charge.” 

Mr. Harrison saw service in the World War. He 
was with the American Ambulance in France from 
March until June 1915, and in 1917, was commissioned 
a lieutenant in the United States Naval Reserve Force. 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


353 


He had the great misfortune to lose his brother, Ed¬ 
mond Caskie Harrison, who volunteered as a private 
and who was killed in France only a few days before the 
Armistice. Since 1917, Mr. Harrison has resided in 
New York City. 


MR. ZIRKLE AND RUTHLESS ROSE AMY. 

Among the sweetest of the sweet girl graduates of 
1907 was Rose Amy Tanner, of Milwood College. Rose 
Amy pronounced the oration over the new-planted class 
ivy in the worst rain-storm of the year 1907; nor would 
she cut a single paragraph of her speech, though her 
friends and classmates, Misses Oldmixon and Barnes, ap¬ 
pointed to horn the umbrellas over her, repeatedly urged 
her to do so in perfectly audible tones. The reporters, 
sitting dry in Abercrombie Hall, wrote it up, you may 
remember, as quite a plucky thing. Having installed 
the ivy, bought a green tin second-hand tube for her 
diploma, and saluted 107 bosom friends a long good-bye, 
Rose Amy came home to Wattlesburg and was put in 
charge of the Zirkle Free Library. 

As Rose Amy secured her appointment to the library 
by pull, so, as she well knew, she was likely to lose it 
by the- converse influence, to wit, push. As the pull 
came from her Uncle George Terwilliger, chairman of 
the board, so the push was morally certain to be applied 
by Zirkle himself. 

Old Zirkle was a hard man and his business was 
hardware. All the old biting similes for meanness had 
been resurrected for his benefit, and many new ones, of 
fair quality only, had been invented by the wits of Wat¬ 
tlesburg in front of the drug-store. The library, built, 
stocked, and endowed with the hard hardware funds, 
was the flower of Zirkle’s senility. Even this was no 
untrammeled donation, for he had reserved the right of 
veto on all acts of the board: a little joker which he em- 



354 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

ployed, oddly enough, exclusively for propelling a long 
succession of librarians into the discard. He tripped 
them with cunning catch-questions and (at the board 
meeting following) whoopingly slashed off their heads 
with his little snickersnee. The old Bluebeard bagged 
eight the first year. 

Old Zirkle died of hardening of the heart, and the 
snickersnee passed to young Zirkle by a special clause in 
the will. Young Zirkle was a chip of the old block, 
Wattlesburg told Rose Amy. The old man’s acquaint¬ 
ance with books had been limited to bank-books, which 
the library, alas, did not circulate; but the young one, 
observed Wattlesburg derogatorily, was a scholar. He 
lived alone in the great house on the hill, consuming 
folios for breakfast, quartos for dinner, and octavos, 
duodecimos, and tomes before retiring for a fitful rest. 
Accordingly, his interrogations to librarians had a singu¬ 
lar dexterity, a profound and stunning adroitness. Only 
three months he had worn the black cap, and already he 
counted four heads, blonde, red, and brunette in his 
little basket. 

It was not to be expected, however, that a girl ca¬ 
pable of apostrophizing a sickly ivy sprig for forty min¬ 
utes in a typhoon would tamely suffer herself to be made 
the sport of the bookworm offspring of a hardware man. 
In availing herself of Uncle George Terwilliger’s nepot¬ 
ism, Rose Amy went in braced for trouble. 

“I shall endeavor,” she said to her young friend, 
Dick Harcourt, who dropped in on her first day at the 
library, “to prove myself an expert librarian, a cour¬ 
teous lady, a devoted booklover, an efficient attendant, a 
discriminating purchaser of new volumes, and a wise 
counselor of the young.” 

“You will endeavor to prove yourself a syndicate,” 
said Dick Harcourt glumly. 

“If,” continued Rose Amy, “in despite of so many 
and such valuable merits, he upsets me on a technicality 
and discharges me, I promise you, Dick, that I shall not 
leave without giving him a piece of my mind.” 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


355 


“All your esteemed predecessors did that,” said 
Dick. “He’s got mpre styles and samples of mind now 
than he knows what to do with.” 

“Not enough to be ashamed of himself with, it 
seems. A tine sport for a grown man—tricking fright¬ 
ened girls out of their bread and meat! ’ ’ 

“Ashamed?” echoed Dick. “How on earth could 
you expect a man with a sense of shame to have a pile 
made out of plumbers’ supplies? Be reasonable, Rose 
Amy. Well, let me know when you want another job. 
Oh, by the way, ’ ’ he added as he rose, ‘ ‘ I came to get a 
book, librarian. G. B. Adam’s ‘Civilization During the 
Middle Ages’—immediately if you please. 

“No joking during library hours,” said the libra¬ 
rian severely. “Good-bye.” 

Dick, aghast, protested that since the world began 
no man ever joked about civilization during the Middle 
Ages. 

“You know very well that you don’t want that 
book, Dick. You couldn’t understand a word of it.” 

“I know very well I could,” said Dick warmly. 

Disputation followed, and at length she rose cross¬ 
ly. Ensued an exasperated sacking of some thirty or 
forty shelves, at the end of which she emerged with the 
book in her hand and a great splotch of dust on her left 
eyebrow. Harcourt accepted the volume sternly. 

“Suppose,” said he, “that Zirkle had witnessed 
this astonishing exhibition. I ask you to put that to 
yourself, my girl. I courteously enter this great peo¬ 
ple’s institution, free to all, however humble. I re¬ 
spectfully ask for an improving work. You upbraid 
me for my lack of learning, you insult me with bitter 
taunts. You take forty minutes to fetch me my desire. 
I say to you that you have proved yourself neither an 
expert librarian, nor a courteous lady, nor a wise coun¬ 
selor of the young, nor yet again—” 

“Go along with you, Dick Harcourt!” cried Rose 
Amy, stamping her foot. “I’m busy!” 

In fact, Rose Amy needed no object lessons. She 


356 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

saw her needs, had her schemes. The library closed to 
the Wattlesburg public at 6 P. M., but the library light 
burned on till late. Pose Amy was within, taking in¬ 
ventory (as they say in the hardware trade) of the stock. 
After a week of silent communion with the shelves, when 
she knew them backwards and forwards, both going and 
coming, she had her little sister come down and insti¬ 
tuted practical drills and quizzes. Rose Amy’s little sis¬ 
ter would circle among the volumes, pick out a couple 
of the stiffest-looking stickers she could find, and, ap¬ 
proaching the desk, say: ‘ 4 Will you kindly give me 
Law’s ‘Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life’ and 
E. P. Roe’s ‘He Fell in Love With His Wife’?” And 
Rose Amy would reply, “Certainly, Mr. Zirkle,” and 
march straight off and pluck out the works in question 
with a careless bibliophile air. 

Very earnestly did Rose Amy thumb “The Small 
Town Library and Its Function,” by the renowned Dr. 
Horace Pipstick. The “Zirkle Free Library Rules and 
Regulations” she scrutinized as a New England school- 
marm scrutinizes a prospective flyer in foulard. She 
perused the card catalogue as an editor his own articles, 
the current book news like a poet publishing at his own 
expense. So the little ivy orator trained for the pre¬ 
destined encounter with the famous decapitator of 
librarians. And on the second day of the third week, 
at ten o’clock in the morning, the decapitator at last 
broke cover and charged upon her. 

Rose Amy knew him the minute he opened the door, 
from Dick’s stinging pen-sketches; she did not need the 
curious, excited glances of the half dozen people in the 
reading-room, flitting expectantly from him to her. A 
tall, stooped, pale, shabby young man he was, with steel- 
rimrned spectacles and black hair that cried for a barber. 

Rose Amy marshaled her composite mental photo¬ 
graph of the library in review, shelf by shelf, not without 
complacence. She saw no gap in her literary armor-plate— 
her book-plate, if you will—through which the snicker¬ 
snee could smite and bite. 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


357 


‘ ‘ I should 1-like, ’ ’ said Zirkle, in a low, stammering 
voice, “to look at your copy of M-MacMifflin’s spring 
catalogue, if you please.” 

The librarian turned scarlet. 

“I am very sorry,” said she, with some difficulty, 
“but—but we have not made a practice of filing pub¬ 
lishers’ catalogues.” 

“Don’t you think it might be well to adopt that 
practice?” asked Zirkle. 

“Well, you see, our space is very limited, and few 
or none of our members are interested in the catalogues. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ You have ascertained their tastes with c-commend- 
able quickness.” 

“Yes—thank you; I have tried to do so,” said she, 
covering a sinking heart with a look of gratified humil¬ 
ity. 

“You had a copy of MacMifflin’s catalogue, didn’t 
you?” resumed the decapitator. 

“Yes, we had one; but after we had selected three 
or four books to order from it, we—we threw it away. 
I am sure,” she added hurriedly, “you can get one at 
the book-store.” 

“Oh, you threw it away?” 

“We threw it away,” said the librarian, clinging 
desperately to the plural pronoun, which seemed to sug¬ 
gest that she was the m^ere mouth-piece of a large cor¬ 
porate body of vast mysterious powers—“since our space 
is limited and it promised to be of interest to few or none 
of our members.” 

Zirkle bowed coldly. 

“Isn’t there something else I may get you?” she 
wheedled in her softest tones. 

“Only M-MacMifflin’s catalogue,” said Zirkle, and 
went. 

So Bull Run was over, and the horrid depths of the 
Zirkle meanness stood fully revealed. After all her 
learned preparations, he had stooped to catch her on a 
miserable compilation of advertisements, and refused 
her the chance to redeem herself by the brilliant delivery 
of some recondite volume of his naming. The interested 



358 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

eavesdroppers in the reading-room, thronging around, 
warmly praised Rose Amy for her courage under fire, 
but over the question of her continued incumbency all 
shook their heads sadly. Dick Harcourt, with plans of 
his own for Rose Amy’s future, was profoundly pessi¬ 
mistic. 

“One more ex-librarian loose in Wattlesburg,” said 
he, with characteristic bluntness. “Another good pull 
on Uncle George Terwilliger’s leg, that’s what this 
means. ’ ’ 

But Rose Amy bravely declined to admit the ex¬ 
treme view of the situation as yet. 

“I’m right about that catalogue, and he knows it,” 
said she. “We’re not running a book-store or a mail¬ 
order house here. Trust me, Dick, I’ll be so agreeable, 
so well informed, so clearly invaluable, that this little 
affair will soon drop from his mind. He has rather 
nice eyes, Dick.” 

“Must have put in glass ones since I saw him,” 
said Dick huffily. 

Zirkle attacked again in three days. He came at 
two-thirty o’clock on a rainy afternoon, and the library 
was deserted. He had not yet visited a tonsorial artist, 
and two buttons were missing from his shabby black 
vest. Rose Amy’s heart rose confidently for the conflict. 

‘ ‘ I have ventured to h-bring, ’ ’ said Zirkle, ‘ ‘ a small 
contribution to the library.” 

He took it from his pocket, done up in brown paper, 
and carefully untied the string. 

“A copy,” said he, offering it, “of M-MacMifflin’s 
catalogue. ’ ’ 

The librarian’s heart fell like a thousand-weight of 
brick. By a herculean effort she kept her face im¬ 
passive. 

“Ah, the spring number, I see,” said she, turning 
the pages with a studious air. “Why, that is very kind 
of you, but the fact is that we have had this.” 

“Don’t you want to f-file it?” asked Zirkle, in his 
lowest voice. 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


359 


“I don’t quite see how we can find the space for 
publications of this sort. You see, if we filed MacMifflin’s 
we ought also, to be consistent, to file Scribbler’s, Apple- 
holt’s and Tripplepage’s. ” 

<r You r-refuse it, then?” 

With difficulty Rose Amy kept from screaming. 
Why, oh why couldn't the man come in like a human 
being and call for real books, stickers if necessary, the 
same as her little sister had done in the drills ? 
However, catalogues were no part of a library’s equip¬ 
ment, and she would not be browbeaten into pretending 
that they were. 

“Unfortunately,” said she, “limitations of space 
and the general interests of the members make it im¬ 
possible for the library to accept many offerings not in 
themselves—hem—without merit. ’ ’ 

“Considering s-space and the members, you refuse 
M-MacMifflin’s catalogue ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Rose Amy, with the calm of desper¬ 
ation. 

Zirkle bowed formally. He took his spurned offer¬ 
ing, carefully rewrapped it, and restored it to his pocket. 

“I should like Green’s ‘History of the English 
People,’ if you p-please.” 

“Certainly,” said Rose Amy, her dead heart spring¬ 
ing to life again. 

She rose, walked with a firm, sure step past four 
stacks, turned in at the fifth, passed the first row of 
shelves, and from the next to the top shelf in the second 
row plucked down the sixth volume from the left. Bear¬ 
ing it, she returned to Zirkle. 

“I requested,” said he, glancing at the fat volume 
without taking it, “Green’s ‘History of the English 
People.’ You have brought me Green’s ‘Short History 
of the English People.’ ” 

Rose Amy flushed to her hair. In truth, it was all 
up with her now. She murmured an apology, replaced 
the short history, and, moving as in a nightmare, doubled 
around the stack for the long one. In comparatively 


360 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

little dentand, this work was placed on the top shelf of 
the one tall stack in the room. The step-ladder was re¬ 
quired, and Rose Amy brought it, placed it, and climbed 
precariously up four steps. Zirkle standing at the foot 
of the ladder, received the volumes tenderly. 

‘‘This work is too useful a one, I should say,” he 
remarked, “to be relegated to such an inac-c-essible 
place.” 

“An excellent history,” said Rose Amy wildly, 
from the steps. (Oh, how she hated and despised him!) 
“Though we prefer the shorter work, and invariably 
recommend that to our members.” 

Zirkle glanced up with a faintly ironic eye. “You 
are f-familiar with both works, then?” 

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I studied both in the 
earlier years of my college course. Afterward I natur¬ 
ally became fond of more advanced and specialized read¬ 
ing—Burnet, Clarendon, Hallami, Lecky, Hume, Gar¬ 
diner, Froude, the diarists, the biographers, the memoir¬ 
ists. Nowadays, of course,” she said, her gaze fastened 
upon Green, “I hardly care to go back to the more ele¬ 
mentary text-books. ’ ’ 

“Your knowledge of English history,” he suggested, 
with some interest in his eyes, “must indeed be pro¬ 
found. ’ ’ 

Rose Amy bowed silently. “But doubtless I should 
be doing an injustice to Milwood,” she said, ostenta¬ 
tiously seating herself on the ladder, since Zirkle guarded 
the pass at the bottom in the best manner of Leonidas, 
“if I left you with the impression that my knowledge of 
history is confined to England. The fact is, indeed, that 
I know all history: Babylonia, Assyria, Phoenicia; 
Judea and Egypt; the early Mycenaean civilization; 
Greece, Rome; the rise and progress of the Teutons and 
the Franks; the Renaissance, the Reformation, and the 
rise of modern Europe; and so on down to the latest 
development of the constitutional situation in China 
and the purchased election of Mr. Frankenberger to 
represent Wattlesburg in Congress.” 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


361 


“Your mind,” said Zirkle, clearly taken aback, must 
be an astonishing r-repository of useless information.” 

His thin mouth had indubitably widened into a 
smile, and Rose Amy, from the top of the ladder, smiled 
back dangerously. 

“Why useless?” 

“I never had much opinion of c-college education 
for women.” 

‘‘No,’’ she said pleasantly; “I suppose it takes 
rather a broad man to do that.” 

“Oh, I don’t know that I’m so narrow as f-far as 
that goes.” 

The librarian turned casually back and began 
straightening the books on the top shelf. 

“May I ask,” said Zirkle, “why you conclude that 
I am a narrow man?” 

“It is not the policy of the library to criticize the 
breadth or the outlook of those who favor it with their 
patronage. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It occurs to me that the library lias already vio¬ 
lated its policy in the g-grossest way.” 

Silence from the ladder. 

‘ ‘ I should be interested to hear, ’ ’ said Zirkle coldly, 
“why you think that I am a n-narrow man.” 

She turned her blue eyes down upon him and laugh¬ 
ed, deliberately, showily. 

“For one thing, consider how enormously interested 
you appear to be in talking about yourself. A—” 

The library door opened, and there entered a little 
bevy of girls, with a teacher or .two, just out from the high 
school. The gazes of all were immediately riveted by 
the spectacle of the pretty librarian on the ladder and 
the wealthy young patron staring upward from its foot. 
Zirkle’s face reddened. He hastily withdrew from the 
ladder. 

“There is not the least s-sense,” he said sharply, 
“in placing these valuable books so far out of reach. 
You should have a new s-stack built at once, to s-stand 
there between the windows.” 


362 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

At the cowardice of this assault, the mean treachery 
of it, Rose Amy’s cheek flamed. She descended from the 
ladder, trying, unsuccessfully, to do it gracefully. 

‘ ‘ I am sorry to say, ’ ’ she answered, quite loud 
enough to be heard in the reading-room, “that the small, 
I may almost say the niggardly, endowment of the library 
leaves us no funds for the purchase of new equipment.” 

“You may send the b-bill to me,” answered Zirkle 
icily. 

“If you will leave me your name and address?” said 
Rose Amy sweetly. 

Zirkle stared at her, speechless, and retired among 
the stacks. There he snooped about for some time, one 
steel-rimmed eye scanning the shelves, the other scanning 
Rose Amy as she courteously dispensed volumes to mem¬ 
bers and wisely counseled the young. In half an hour 
he stood before her desk again. 

“I have j-just been looking about among the book’s” 
said he. “On the whole, I doubt if ‘Gulliver’s Travels ' 
and Hubbard’s ‘Little Journeys’ should be classified as 
travel books, Miss T-T-Tanner. ” 

Rose Amy, though nigh to bursting, said nothing, 
scorning to incriminate her predecessors. 

“And I don’t believe that I should put ‘The L-Little 
Minister’ under Theology and Bible Criticism, either. I 
think you made an error of judgment there, Miss 
T-Tanner. ” 

The librarian glared at him. 

“I should like,” said Zirkle drily, “to g-get Adam’s 
‘Civilization During the Middle Ages.’ ” 

“I am sorry,” said she, endeavoring to perk up 
under this suden ray of hope, “but that book is out.” 

“Out? Oh, no, I think not.” 

“I am sorry, but it is out.” 

“On the contrary,” replied Zirkle, “here it is.” 

By a marvel, his eye had fallen upon it in the pile 
of books upon the librarian’s desk,—it was the top one 
in the pile, ah me!—and he held it up. How under 
heaven she could have forgotten that Dick had fetched 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


363 


the hateful thing back the night before Rose Amy could 
not now imagine. But she declined to betray the small¬ 
est concern over its highly inopportune appearance. 

“Ah, I recall now,” she said casually. “It was 
returned yesterday. You wish to take it out, I believe 
you said?” 

“Th-thank you.” 

And now, her neck already palpitating prospectively 
under the stroke of the snickersnee, she was ready to 
launch the return bolt she had had upon the ice for 
three weeks. Be assured that the rain-proof orator 
of Milwood meant to die with her boots on. Zirkle pro¬ 
duced his member’s card. Rose Amy took it and looked 
up its fellow in the little card catalogue in the drawer. 

“Oh, you are Mr. Zirkle, then,” she said, with well- 
feigned, mild surprise, “Mr. F. X. Zirkle.” 

“Such,” said Zirkle, “is my name.” 

“Why, it seems that you already have out two 
books, Mr. Zirkle. Freeman’s ‘Federal Government’ 
and Hannis Taylor’s ‘Origin of the English Constitu¬ 
tion.’ You’ve had them out since April 14.” 

“I re-returned those books,” said Zirkle. 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t find any record of their 
return, nor do the books appear to be in the library. So 
there is quite a fine against you, I’m afraid, running 
since April 28. It will be—let me see—h’m—$5.64.*’ 

“But I r-returned the books a few days after I got 
them out.” 

Rose Amy expressed regret over the absence of any 
verification of this assertion in the official archives. 
Zirkle hesitated. 

“P-perhaps you will be good enough to look the 
matter up more fully, letting the alleged f-fine run 
until to-morrow. Meantime, I should like to take out 
this book.” 

“I’m sorry, but our members are allowed to have 
out but two books at a time.” 

A look passed between Zirkle and the Zirkle libra¬ 
rian. Simultaneously a giggle from the breathless audi- 


364 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

ence in the reading-room broke the tense calm. 

“You r-refuse to let me take out this book?” 

“Merely pending the return of overdue volumes and 
the payment of all fines incurred, ’ * said Rose Amy, from 
the “Rules and Regulations.” 

“Without such action on my part, you r-refuse to 
let me take out this book?” 

“Unfortunately, I have no alternative,” said Rose 
Amy, with a casual smile. “Did you wish something, 
Mrs. Tompkins?” 

The decapitator laid down the book and walked 
away without a word. 

With the shutting of the door upon him a great stir 
and buzzing instantly broke out in the reading-room, 
and, this being sternly checked by Rose Amy, there fol¬ 
lowed an excited exodus. So it became quickly noised 
over the town that the eponymous patron of Zirkle Free 
Library had been summarily suspended from member¬ 
ship by a pink-and-white slip of a three weeks’ librarian. 
A sad dog of a reporter on the Wattlesburg Bee heard 
the wild story and wrote it up for his paper, in the 
human-interest manner with facetious touches. He also 
gave it to the Associated Press, which scattered it over 
the country. Thus it cam!e under the eye of the editor 
in New York w T ho had written the witty editorial about 
Rose Amy’s exploit around the ivy. The wag remem¬ 
bered her, it seemed, and wrote a second witty editorial 
called, impudently enough, “Mr. Zirkle and Ruthless 
Rose Amy. ’ ’ Men in Portland, Maine, and Walla Walla, 
Washington, spoke of Rose Amy as of an old friend. 

Meantime Wattlesburg was in an uproar. Hardly 
anything else was talked of by the wits at the drug-store 
for days. 

Ninety-nine out of every hundred Wattlesburgers 
supported Rose Amy with vociferous congratulations 
and acclaim. This, they said cordially, was where Zirkle 
got his. Dick Harcourt, with his private plans for Rose 
Amy’s future, was especially jubilant. She had handed 
the brute, in his figurative language, such a smite on 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


365 


the plexus that he couldn’t come back. Some voices 
were raised, however, on the other side. There was Rose 
Amy’s little sister, for instance, who urged her to kneel 
instantly at Zirkle’s feet and implore his forgiveness 
with tears. Friendly members of the board suggested, 
after varying preambles, that it might—hum, hum—be 
good policy to yield the rule in this particular instance. 
So also said the Wattlesburg Guardian in a column 
editorial, though the Bee’s facetious reply next morning 
won far more public approbation. On the third day 
Uncle George Terwilliger dropped in, sighing heavily. 

“It’s suicide, Rose,” he said lugubriously. “That’s 
what it is.” 

“No,” said Rose Amiy; “I was dead and buried al¬ 
ready.” 

“No comp’omise on a matter of principle—my mot- 
ter all my life long. Still, Rose—when you think it’s 
Zirkle— Zirkle — ’ ’ 

“On the board,” said Rose Amy, “he is the son of 
the man who gave the library. In here he is simply a 
member, like the rest of them. If I break the rule for 
him I must break it for everybody.” 

“Of course, now, he says,” observed Uncle George 
weakly, “he says he returned those books, Rosie.” 

“Some people will say anything for $5.64,” said 
Rose Amy. 

Uncle George mopped his brow, meditating that 
women beat him. Well! 

“Letty Wilson’ll be the next librarian. Miss Bemis 
is pledging votes for her now. Runnin’ you down some, 
too, Bemis is, the old cat. Says Zirkle’s going to insti- 
toot legal proceedings against the libr’ry and you an’ 
me personally. Well, Rose, I’ll see if I can’t find you 
something at the school, though Lord knows good jobs 
don’t go begging these days. 

The same day five friendly members of the board 
signed and submitted a petition for Zirkle’s reinstate¬ 
ment, thus kindly offering the librarian a most beauti¬ 
ful chance to crawl out, with all the responsibility nicely 



366 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

thrown upon the shoulders of her superiors. Rose 
Amy refused to take advantage of this line of retreat, 
and early on the following morning she met Uncle 
George Terwilliger. 

“Calling a board meetin’ for to-morrow at five- 
thirty, ” said Uncle George. 

“Whom was it requested by?” asked Rose Amy, of 
Milwood College. 

“Zirkle,” said Uncle George, all but bursting into 
tears. 

Rose Amy plodded on to the library, where her days 
were now so numbered and brief. It was a fine, sunny 
morning in early fall, whose joyousness not even the de- 
capitators of this weary world could wholly spoil. On 
the library steps, leaning against the locked door, stood 
Zirkle. 

“Good morning,” said Rose Amy distantly. 

He had bundles of books and papers under his arms, 
and he shifted his burdens to lift his hat gingerly. 

“I called to propose a c-compromise,” said Zirkle 
calmly. “I will consent to pay that fine, under p-pro- 
test, provided that you will dismiss the charge of the 
missing books.” 

The little librarian unconsciously stiffened. Flaunt¬ 
ing the morrow’s board meeting over her head, he was 
mean-spirited enough to try to make her back water for 
the contemptible gratification of his vanity. 

“In cases of delinquency,” said she, “the library is 
entitled to the payment of all fines incurred and the re¬ 
turn of all overdue books. I have no authority to abro¬ 
gate the rules in the interest of any member. 

“In that case, I w-wanted to ask if my reading- 
room privileges were suspended also.” 

“I do not know of anything in the rules that re¬ 
quires me to take that step,” answered Rose Amy, in 
the tone of one who has searched long for just such a 
requirement. 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


367 


“I’m g-gratified to hear it,” said Zirkle in a low 
voice. 

She unlocked the door, and he entered after her, 
lugging along his paraphernalia. Eose Amy never for¬ 
got the day that followed. 

It was the duty of the Zirkle librarian to serve as 
attendant in the reading-room, and Zirkle, having spread 
himself over a table, availed himself of his privilege that 
day to the uttermost stretch of the imagination. Rose 
Amy had not removed her hat before he rapped with 
his pencil and called for two books. She had hard¬ 
ly brought them and taken her seat before he rapped for 
two more, and then two more. So it ran all through the 
long day. The reading-room filled up with the morn¬ 
ing loafers, emptied again at the dinner-hour, refilled in 
the afternoon with regular and transient trade. But, 
through all changes and vicissitudes, the decapitator sat 
on at his choice corner seat, picking his ostensible needs 
out of volumes with a flying glance, and rapping inces¬ 
santly for more. 

The librarian was equal to the occasion. If a man 
was low enough to seek a puerile revenge for his public 
(and just) penalizations, it was far from her nature to 
play into his hand with groans and lamentations. 
Through the long day she remained unshakably cour¬ 
teous and smiling, marvelously prompt, most provoking- 
ly efficient. Placing and replacing one million books, 
trotting up and down to an aggregate of one hundred 
and fifty miles, she unfailingly suggested by her man¬ 
ner that playing handmaid to Zirkle’s nod was the one 
thing in the world calculated to keep her supremely 
happy. 

All this, and then to fail in the end. Rose Amy’s 
brilliant triumph of good nature had a miserable 
anti-climax. About five-thirty, Zirkle, having verified 
his last alleged reference, approached the librarian’s 
desk, while the ubiquitous fellow on the Bee, who had 
dropped in a-search for another story in his famous 
facetious vein, edged nearer to hear what he might say. 


368 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Zirkle, it seemed, desired permission to make a personal 
search, for the two deplorably missing works charged to 
his account. Rose Amy gladly accorded it. She em¬ 
braced the prospect of seeing Zirkle work, especially in 
vain. Zirkle retired among the shelves. In three 
minutes he returned, and, in the sight of all, laid down 
the missing volumes under Rose Amy’s fascinated gaze. 

“They had f-falien over behind,” he said evenly, 
“in Stack 5, Section B.” 

The librarian stared at them, pale and speechless. 

“I was c-certain I had returned them,” said 
Zirkle’s voice, in the room’s still calm. 

Rose Amy’s world careened in red, and the redness 
showered shooting stars and a thousand pin-wheels. 

“Oh!” she cried passionately. “You brought them 
back and just put them there!” 

Even Zirkle’s hands turned a dull, purply red. He 
stammered something unintelligible and backed away. 

And next day, as if matters weren’t in quite enough 
of a mess already, Rose Amy, straightening out desk 
drawers in preparation for her early demise, was sud¬ 
denly struck cold by a scrap of brown paper wretchedly 
scrawded over thus: “4-17-7 B207f—B1772 ret’d Z.” 
Upon investigation, B207f and B1772 proved to be Free¬ 
man’s “Federal Government” and Taylor’s “Origin 
and Growdh of the English Constitution. ’ ’ Zirkle had re¬ 
turned them, just as he said, only the slatternly librarian 
of that date had been too lazy to get out his card and 
record that fact. 

About five, Letty Wilson strolled past the library, 
examining it with quite a proprietary air. Letty had 
seven votes out of nine firmly pledged, Uncle George 
said. Half an hour later the board was to be heard 
gathering in session in the little “librarian’s room” 
across the hall. It w r as still sitting when Dick Harcourt 
came in just at closing-time. By courtesy of the libra¬ 
rian, Dick was permitted to conduct the ceremonies of 
adjournment in the reading-room, w r hich consisted mere¬ 
ly in announcing that it was six o ’clock. Dick made the 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


369 


most of his brief authority. He paraded up and down 
the two long rooms, repeatedly crying out in a needless¬ 
ly basso voice: 1 ‘ Six o ’clock! Six o ’clock! Six o ’clock! ’ ’ 
—at the same time making large banishing gestures with 
his great hand. 

The last reader banished, Dick sat by Rose Amy and 
hearkened to her. Presently the sound of shuffling foot¬ 
steps and opening doors from across the hall advertised 
that the rites of decapitation were concluded. Some¬ 
body rattled the reading-room door, but Rose Amy would 
not get up and unlock it. She felt that she could not 
stand Uncle George Terwilliger’s tears just now. Be¬ 
sides, she was absorbed in her conversation with Dick. 

“I want you to walk up there with me now, Dick. 
You see my position, don’t you? Just because I hate 
him so, I can’t sleep till I have apologized to him for 
what I said.” 

Dick argued stoutly for a letter. 

“No,” said Rose Amy. “I insulted him, to his face, 
and I ’ll withdraw it in the same manner. ’ ’ 

“You little cutey,” said Dick, an irrelevance for 
which he was soundly rebuffed. 

“Let’s go,” said Rose Amy, rising feverishly. “It’s 
been on my mind all day, and I can’t wait another 
minute. You fasten the windows, Dick, while I shut up 
the other room and bolt the back door.” 

Dick obediently fell upon his task. Rose Amy, al¬ 
ready hatted and gloved, unlocked the door and flew 
across the hall. Dusk was filtering into the librarian’s 
room. Chairs stood about the long table, pushed back 
in disorder. In one of the chairs sat a man, his head 
between his hands. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Rose Amy, halting dead just in¬ 
side the threshold. 

Zirkle raised his head and looked at her in silence. 
Color came into his face—came, but soon departed. 

“I’m glad that I found you,’’ began Rose Amy, res¬ 
olute, but rather white, “because I—I wanted to ask 
your pardon for what I said to you yesterday.” 


370 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

“Oh, tk-that’s all right,” said Zirkle calmly, curl¬ 
ing and uncurling a piece of paper. “S-saying things 
never makes the least difference, so it seems to me. It 
is only thinking them that counts. ’ ’ 

“But my apology is for thinking—that,” said Rose 
Amy, draining her bitter medicine. “To-day I found 
a memorandum in the drawer. I was—was in the wrong 
from the beginning.’ ’ 

“A natural mistake, and one of no c-consequence,” 
said Zirkle absently, his cheek upon his hand. 

Rose Amy was somewhat at a loss. The subtle air 
of melancholy that seemed to envelop the decapitator’s 
bowed figure was unexpected and a little confusing. 
However, she could not lock him up in the librarian’s 
room, and so she turned to go. 

“Should you say that the new salary is s-sufficient 
to insure us a good librarian?” said Zirkle’s voice. 

“The new salary?” she repeated, halting. 

“That it is s-sufficient to insure us a good libra¬ 
rian ? ’ ’ 

“I’m afraid I. haven’t heard about the new salary,’’ 
said Rose Amy. 

“Oh! I thought that was why you—” He broke 
off, hesitated, and drily resumed: “We have raised the 
librarian’s salary to a thousand a year.” 

Under this final taunt, this crowning act of spite 
and petty reprisal, the girl’s blood rose. 

“It is more than sufficient for a good librarian, of 
course,” said she. “But I’m afraid that the whole 
world does not contain a librarian that you would think 
good.” 

“On the contrary, Wattlesburg contains one.” 

“Letty Wilson!” 

“Letty Wilson? Oh, no,” said Zirkle, 'with the 
same strange listlessness. “I was s-speaking of you.” 

He continued to dog-ear his corner of paper, ap¬ 
parently utterly indifferent to the dramatic quality of 
his announcement. Rose Amy leaned against the shut 
door, very white and sick. The dim silence lengthened. 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


371 


‘'Do you mean,” said she, struggling against an 
absurd impulse to cry, “that you have made me libra¬ 
rian at a thousand dollars a year ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Zirkle. “Yes, I think that is what my 
father would have wished.” 

But why ? ’’ asked Rose Amy, in a very small voice. 

“M-mostly,” he said, “because you’re not a politi¬ 
cian. ’ ’ 

She echoed his phrase stupidly, secretly rather dis¬ 
appointed. Suddenly he threw his arms over his head 
and rose, his air of fixed melancholy oddly and unex¬ 
pectedly broken with feeling. 

“Oh, they never understood father!” he cried out. 
“They never understood him!!” 

To her astonishment, he began to pace about the 
floor, talking passionately, her presence evidently quite 
forgotten. “They called him hard, but he was a s-shy 
man at heart, and this library was his pride, his monu¬ 
ment. All his life he wanted to do something g-genuine 
for Wattlesburg, and when he could he did this. It p- 
pinched him to make the gift,—nearly half of all he had 
it cost,—but he said it must be a model library and 
never mind the expense. And what a lot of p-pleasure 
we had p-picking out the books, and how we planned 
and schemed to make it perfect in its usefulness and ser¬ 
vice to the town. That’s what he did—and how have 
they rewarded him? Grabbed his gift for one more 
plum, that’s all, one more j-job for incompetent hangers- 
on and imbecile f-favorites! Oh, it’s enough to make 
one s-sick, the troop of little heelers they’ve foisted 
off on us. But we hunted them out like the worms they 
were, and, by heaven, I’ll k-keep on doing so, as long as 
I’m f-fit to be his son ! ’ ’ 

He stopped abruptly, and stared at Rose Amy with 
a faintly horrified look, as though just recalling who 
and what she was. His face changed; he made a slight 
formal bow, and, passing over to the table, began to 
gather up his things. 


372 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

“However, I am s-sure,” he added in a hard, dry 
voice, “that there will be no further necessity for that 
sort of activity.” 

Rose Amy leaned palely against the door, and looked 
at him from under a hat much larger than most 
librarians affect. Her thoughts were flying, reconstruct¬ 
ing her universe. For the first time she saw young 
Zirkle as a son who had loved his father, but four months 
dead, and old Zirkle as a man who had, at least, done 
one generous thing, and seen his generosity meanly 
abused. And she wondered if young Zirkle also could 
possibly be shy at heart, and she saw that there was a 
third button gone from his vest to-day and that his black 
hair was in wild disarray. 

‘ ‘ I sat on here a moment, thinking it all over, ’’ said 
Zirkle, picking up his shabby hat with the mourning- 
band. “I t-trust I have not detained you?” 

He moved toward the door, but Rose Amy bravely 
stood her ground. 

“I’m only a hanger-on, too,” she said. “I got in 
by pull, just like the others.” 

“Yes,” said Zirkle impersonally; “your uncle 
George Terwilliger is d-decidedly n-nepotistic in his out¬ 
look, to put it only generally. However, we are not 
raising his salary. You are no politician, at any rate. 
You s-stand on your own feet. You won’t truckle. Be¬ 
sides, you’re a first-rate librarian.” 

“I make a good many mistakes,” said she, setting 
her teeth on her lower lip to stop its trembling. 

“S-so does everybody. But you have the qualities 
of character, and you have the expert knowledge. I 
th-thought you had. So I gave you a pretty s-severe try¬ 
ing out to make sure. And you had.” 

He took another step forward, but still Rose Amy 
would not move. 

‘ ‘ I—I’ve done you a—a great wrong in my thoughts, 
all along,” faltered she. “And now—how can I thank 
you ?” 

“Oh, there is no question of thanks,” said Zirkle 


HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON 


373 


formally. “What was done was done for the library, 
n-not for any individual. There was nothing p-personal 
in it. Oh, no; n-nothing in the least p-p-personal. ,, 

He was looking down at her from his height, and 
suddenly all color ebbed! from his sad young face. Now, 
indeed, Rose Amy stood away from his egress. Zirkle 
bowed hurriedly, passed her, and went through the door. 
Then he paused irresolutely. Then he turned back. 

‘ ‘ By the way, I ’m g-going in your direction, M-Miss 
T-T-Tanner,” he said, his stammer at its worst. “As 
it is g-growing late, perhaps you will let me w-walk 
home with you.” 

“Why,” said Rose Amy, her heart beginning to 
beat again, “that would be awfully good of you, Mr. 
Zirkle. ’ ’ 

Out into the night they went together, Mr. Zirkle 
and the Zirkle librarian. And, for all the librarian 
thought of it at the moment, poor Dick might have 
waited the night in the reading-room, sleeping heavily 
upon a table. 


McClure’s Magazine , 1911. 


JOHN JACOB CORNWELL 


J ohn Jacob Cornwell, son of Jacob H. Cornwell and 
Mary E. (Taylor) Cornwell was born, July 11, 
1867, on a farm near Pennsboro, Ritchie County, 
West Virginia. In 1870, the Cornwell family moved to 
a farm near Romney, Hampshire County, West Virginia. 
He was educated in the rural schools of his home county, 
at Shepherd College State Normal School and at 
West Virginia University where he spent a summer 
term. He began to teach at the age of sixteen for twen¬ 
ty-eight dollars a month. He closed his career as a 
teacher, seven years later, as principal of the high 
school at Romney at a salary of sixty dollars a month. 
In the fall of 1890, with his brother W. B. Cornwell, he 
bought The Hampshire Review, of which he was editor 
until March 4, 1917, when he became governor of West 
Virginia. In addition to his editoral work, Mr. Corn- 
well found time to study law in the offices of his brother, 
and was admitted to the bar in 1894. He has had a 
large part in the development of West Virginia, espe¬ 
cially in that of his own section. Through his efforts, a 
railroad was constructed from Romhey to Moorefield. 
He has also done a great deal towards the development 
of commercial fruit growing in Hampshire and adjoin¬ 
ing counties. 

In 1891, Mr. Cornwell married Miss Edna Brady. 
A great grief came to Mr. and Mrs. Cornwell in 1914, 
when they lost their only son, John Jacob Cornwell, Jr., 
who was just entering into manhood. They have a 
daughter, Mrs. Eugene E. Ailes of Washington, D. C. 

In 1896, Mr. Cornwell made his entry into politics, 
when he was elected a delegate to the Democratic Na¬ 
tional Convention at Chicago. He was elected to the 
State Senate in 1898 and in 1902. While serving his 


374 


JOHN JACOB CORNWELL 


375 


second term as State Senator, he was nominated for 
governor of West Virginia, and was defeated, though he 
ran 25,000 votes ahead of his ticket. In 1916, he was 
again the Democratic nominee for governor and was the 
only Democrat on the State ticket to be elected. 

Mr. Cornwell's career as fifteenth governor of West 
Virginia won for him the respect and admiration of the 
right thinking people of his State regardless of party 
affiliations. His absolute fairness as an executive, his 
fearlessness in dealing with wrong-doers, his broad grasp 
of public affairs, his ability as a leader and his untiring 
efforts in assisting the Federal Government in prosecut¬ 
ing the war against Germany attracted the attention of 
the people of the country at large, and made him a Na¬ 
tional figure. 

Mr. Cornwell is now living in Baltimore, where he 
is general counsel for the Baltimore and Ohio railroad, 
which first employed him as a section hand. A reporter 
who had a recent interview with Mr. Cornwell says that 
he ‘ ‘ found him in his pretentious office in the huge head¬ 
quarters of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad. Everything 
in that office was calculated to make a man anything but 
homesick, for there were all the comforts necessary to 
bring peace to any harassed soul. But the ex-governor, 
once a country editor, still loves the country and pines 
for the joys of the small town news shop. His whimsi¬ 
cal reflections betray him as a simplehearted person, 
rather amazed at the wickedness and complexity of 
modern life, especially city life. He makes it plain that 
legal lore, in which he leads, brings him less satisfaction 
than poetry, even when he writes it himself, simply, 
touchingly, sometimes, but not often humorously. He 
yearns for the fishing and the hunting, once his pas¬ 
times in West Virginia, now denied him in Baltimore.” 

In 1915, Mr. Cornwell published “Knock About 
Notes/’ a collection of sketches and verse that had ap¬ 
peared from time to time in The Hampshire Review. 


376 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


ONE YEAR 

One whole year! how long! 

And yet how short the time 

It seems since he was strong, 

Only approaching his prime. 

Ah me! one year has passed, 

Dragging its weary way, 

And now the anniversary, at last, 

Of that, the darkest, saddest day. 

Time heals our sorrows o’er? 

Perhaps, but when so deep 

The heart is wounded, still more 

The time required to assuage our grief. 

Long horn’s and nights were they, 

That measured the passing year. 

Shadows covered the day, 

Though they brought no tear. 

Yet, now that they are gone 
It seems so short, the space 

Of time that has moved on 
Since I saw, last, his face. 

Another year will now begin 
To measure my lingering woe; 

Another wherein I lose or win. 

How long will it continue so? 

But then, each mile-stone passed 
Brings me nearer to the end; 

When I shall have reached the last 

And upon my strength no longer can depend. 

By his side, then, let me lie, 

He whom I hoped would soothe my brow 

When I should come at last to die, 

Whenever that should be, or how. 


JOHN JACOB CORNWELL 


377 


For where there is no goal 

The race had just as well be done. 
Were there no worlds to warm 

There had as well have been no snn. 


LAZY, HAZY DAYS 

Oh, the hazy, lazy days 
Are the days I long to see; 

The days that come in old October 
Are the happy days for me. 

; I' i 

There are apples in the cellar, 

And cider dbwn there, too; 

There’s fodder in the corn field, 
Enough to see us through. 

So, gather in a lot o’ wood 
And have it good and ready; 

We will be in ease and comfort 

' When winter sets in steady. 

Apple cuttin’s cornin’ on, 

Butter boilings, too; 

Corn shuckin’s right along, 

All October through. 

Turkeys getting mighty fat, 

Rabbits getting fatter; 

Chase them cotton tails so fast 

They won’t know what’s the matter. 

June time’s a good time 

With bees a buzzin’, hummin’, 

But October time is my time 
And that time’s cornin’. 



378 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


A FALL TIME HUNT 

Yes, “the frost is on the pumpkin 
And the fodder’s in the shock;” 

And the squirrels are in couples 
And the turkeys are in flocks. 

But the leaves, they are a failin’ 

And the nuts are droppin’ fast; 

While the turkeys, they are callin’, 

And the squirrels huntin’ mast. 

So, it’s hunt ’em as you ’re able, 

In the hollow, on the hills; 

Yet the garpe upon your table, 

Won’t meet your ammunition bills. 

But the walks you take are glorious 
For your health and spirits too; 

And e’en they are laborious, 

They eliminate the blues. 

So get the old 1 ‘ home rifle, ’ ’ 

My! How I ’ll make it grunt: 

For I ’ll not stand on a trifle, 

When we are going for a hunt. 

Now, “Molly put the kettle on” 
“Amd Johnnie get your gun,” 

We may not get the venison 

But at least we’ll have some fun. 


JOSEPH MARGRAVE MEADOR 


J oseph Margrave Meador was born in Summers Coun¬ 
ty, West Virginia, March 27, 1866, and with the ex¬ 
ception of several winters spent in Florida, has spent 
his entire life in his native county. He is the son of 
Rev. John J. Meador who was a grandson of Rev. Josiah 
Meador, the founder of the first Baptist church estab¬ 
lished in West Virginia, west of the New River. 

Reared, as he was, in the rural section of West Vir¬ 
ginia in which the school term lasted only for a period 
of from two and a-half to three months, it was with 
great difficulty that Mr. Meador obtained his education. 
When he was twenty years of age, he began teaching and 
for the next four years taught in the winter and attend¬ 
ed school during the summer. Mr. Meador is at pres¬ 
ent a successful real estate dealer of Hinton, West Vir¬ 
ginia. He is the author of a number of poems and, at 
the urgent request of his friends, he recently published 
a volume of verse entitled ‘ ‘ Memories and Other Poems. ’ ’ 


OLE BRER GROUN’ HOG 

You may talk about Brer ’Possum, Brer Terrypin, Brer 
Fox; 

About the Tu’key Buzzard, how Brer Rabbit smote the 
rock; 

How Sis Cow shook down the ’simmons, how Brer B’ar 
the honey got; 

But I ’low Ole Brer Groun’ Hog has beat ’em all a lot. 

For when he sets back on his peg and casts his weather 
eye 


379 


380 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

About, as if he’s lookin’ for symptoms in the sky, 

You’d better take your b’arin’s, and hold the rudder 
tight 

When Brer Groun’ Hog sees his shadder, if you want to 
head in right. 

I thought about a month ago I’d watch it; and, by jings, 

We’ve had four weeks of cold and snow, along with other 
things; 

We’ll have some more of it yit—about two weeks—and 
then 

You’ll see Brer Jay a-sportin’ with Sis Robin in the 
glen. 

Ole Brer B ’ar and Brer Fox were all right in their day— 

A pity ’tis them good ole times has long since passed 
aw r ay— 

But Brer Groun’ Hog still holds trumps, and beats the 
Weather Man 

A-playin’ of prognostics,—by peekin’ in his han’. 


CHARLES FREDERICK TUCKER BROOKE 

C harles Frederick Tucker Brooke, author and edu¬ 
cator, was born at Morgantown, West Virginia, 
June 4, 1883. His father, St. George Tucker 
Brooke, was dean of the Law School of West Virginia 
University for years, and is well remembered by his 
former students not only as a profound scholar, but as 
the finest type of Virginia gentleman of the old school. 
His mother, Mary Harrison (Brown) Brooke, is a mem¬ 
ber of the Brown and Washington families, and has all 
the traditional charm and grace of her distinguished an¬ 
cestors. 

Doctor Brooke has had exceptional educational ad¬ 
vantages. He received an A.B. degree in 1901 and an A. 
M. degree in 1902 from West Virginia University. In 
1903-’4 he was fellow in German at the University of 
Chicago. From 1904 until 1907 he was at Oxford where 
he had the honor of being the first Rhodes scholar from 
West Virginia. In 1906, Oxford University conferred 
upon him the A. B. degree with honors, and, in 1907, 
the degree of B. Litt. 

Doctor Brooke was instructor in English at Cornell 
in 1909. Since 1909, he has been a rhember of the Eng¬ 
lish department of Yale, where he is now professor of 
English. He has attained wide recognition as a Shakes¬ 
pearean scholar and is considered an authority on Eliza¬ 
bethan literature. One of his best known works is ‘ 1 The 
Tudor Drama.” He has also contributed, from time to 
time, essays, sketches and short stories to magazines. 

One who has known Doctor Brooke from childhood 
says of him that his ready wit, gift of repartee and 
“quick sympathetic apprehension of all that is beauti¬ 
ful or desirable in life” make him one of the most fasci¬ 
nating of companions. 

In 1909, Doctor Brooke was united in marriage to 
Miss Grace Drakeford of Hertfordshire, England, a lady 
whose beauty, education, and charming personality make 

her a fitting companion for her distinguished husband. 

381 


382 


STORIES AND VERSE OP WEST VIRGINIA 


A WELL-REGULATED FAMILY 

John Gatesden’s possession of the seven hundred 
ancestral acres of the Kingswell estate seemed to the 
community in which he flourished as inalienable a 
blessing as his possession of the straight Gatesden nose 
and the finest name in the county. The ownership of 
Kingswell, every one felt, would always be a more im¬ 
portant factor in Gatesden’s career than his profession 
of law; though his choice of vocation, coming to him by 
heredity as naturally as his estate, had never during 
the thirty years he had lived been a moment in doubt. 

Gatesden’s law office—no unfair index to the char¬ 
acter of its occupant—was regarded by the legal frater¬ 
nity of Graysville with more of affectionate indulgence 
than respect. No door in the long low line of attorneys’ 
quarters that flanks the court-house opened oftener than 
John’s to admit a friend, and few remained less disturb¬ 
ed by clients. By common consent of the well-selected 
souls who had the entree, Gatesden’s office was the best 
place in town to idle away a vagrant half-hour in the 
discussion of books or travel, politics or balls. 

Yet there was nothing flippant about either John 
or his office. The walls of the two rooms were lined 
to the ceiling with sheep-bound repositories of cases, 
statutes, and reports—the accretion of three earlier gen¬ 
erations of Gatesdens, supplemented, however, in good 
judgment, by recent purchases. Two diplomas, hung 
unobstrusively low behind the desk, occasionally awoke 
the visitor to surprised remembrance that John Gatesden 
had done notably well some ten years before at the fine 
college which had educated his grandfathers, showing, 
as an old professor had declared, a marked hereditary 
aptitude for legal reasoning. 

No one, indeed, could have said that the slight opin¬ 
ion of Gatesden’s professional ability had arisen from any 
overt error or neglect. On the contrary, though the 


CHARLES FREDERICK TUCKER BROOKE 383 


habitues of his office generally wasted his time and their 
own in miscellaneous chatter, John’s mind did not the 
less dominate the discussion when a visitor introduced 
shop-talk in connection with some thorny current case. 
Not infrequently in the past years, his struggling and 
rising contemporaries had even admitted, with a freedom 
bred of the inconceivableness of rivalry, that the deci¬ 
sive argument in an involved suit had been suggested by 
a lightly offered reference or extemporary harangue of 
J ohn’s. 

Some of the older practitioners, friends of his 
father, would still ask when John Gatesden was going to 
stop fooling and become a lawyer; but the general public, 
which in such cases is wont to assume what is most agree¬ 
able to it, had long settled that John would never 
amount to much in his profession. How could the com¬ 
munity afford to exchange for a self-engrossed intel¬ 
lectual machine, this incomparable gentleman of leisure 
and letters, whose fine-flavored courtesy and charming 
mind lay always as freely and generously open as his 
office-door? Had not fate itself foreordained through 
twm hundred years that Gatesden of Kingswell should be 
free from sordid cares and ambitions ? 

The smallest hints of impracticality were in John’s 
case joyously exaggerated into proofs of lovable incom¬ 
petence. The weekly copy of Le Figaro on his desk, the 
annotated copy of Chaucer which a too boisterous in¬ 
truder once snatched from his hand with shouts of 
laughter, were regarded as fatal symptoms of a digres¬ 
sive mind, and served to discourage clients as effectually 
as any spring-gun on the door. And yet no visitor to 
Judge Thornton’s untidy adjoining office was ever rash 
enough to draw a similar inference from the hideous pile 
of dime detective novels with which that legal Trojan 
was used to relieve his orgies of work. 

As the idleness of the vacations was followed each 
year by the more glaring inoccupation of the terms of 
court, Gatesden came more and more to accept the posi¬ 
tion which circumstances and opinion seemed to have 


384 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

prescribed for him. Pride itself helped to cover the 
springs of energy. Since the universe had gratuitously 
adopted this delusion concerning him, was it not more 
seemly to accept the false estimate with an inward 
shrug, as he might let pass some stranger’s egregious 
blunder concerning him, rather than make himself ridic¬ 
ulous in the effort to vindicate his possession of a trait 
which was never disputed in many of his most common¬ 
place associates? 

The inward protest which the more ardent part of 
his nature did make from time to time against the trend 
of his existence was too gentle to sour his enjoyment of 
life; and it was everywhere noted that the years were 
dealing graciously with him. Since college, his fine- 
featured face had grown a shade rounder, his attitudes 
and movements more reposeful. Though no taint of 
fatness or self-indulgence had as yet begun to coarsen 
his refinement of look and manner, his personality now 
gave forth the companionable charm which comes with 
the knowledge how to get the fullest enjoyment out of 
every passing moment. No man could smoke a pipe with 
a more perfect balance between the nervous jerks that 
frustrate soporific pleasure and the apathy which grows 
oblivious of satisfaction. In his presence people realized 
for the first time how fine and rare an art it is to sit 
properly in one’s chair. 

Guests at the bachelor dinners at Kingswell used 
to comment on John’s growing likeness to the portrait 
of his Revolutionary ancestor, Colonel John Gatesden, 
which hung behind the host’s seat in the dining-room. 
He was in fact reverting to type, developing a more 
leisurely and stately mianner, with smoother brow and 
slower movement than belongs to the gentleman of the 
present order. And, indeed, he was not ill-pleased to 
have this observed. The master of Kingswell would not 
be living in vain, he fancied, while he revived for the 
benefit of a too busy age the more charming traits of the 
early Gatesdens. 

The Kingswell property, which was so largely re- 


CHARLES FREDERICK TUCKER BROOKE 385 

sponsible for John Gatesden’s state of mind, was an ob¬ 
ject of pride not only to its owner, but to the entire 
region. Though reduced to less than a tithe of its col¬ 
onial extent, it was still a very imposing tract, and al¬ 
most alone of the old demesnes had been able to keep it¬ 
self in the undisturbed possession of the family to which 
its original charter had been granted. The land had 
been strictly entailed from the first, and though the Rev¬ 
olution had annulled the legal force of the old tenure, 
it had in no way weakened the religious respect in which 
every Gatesden was taught to hold it. The duty of pre¬ 
serving the estate indivisibly in the family, as their first 
ancestors had bequeathed it, had been instilled until it 
had become a racial instinct; and the land passed from 
eldest son to eldest son as regularly as if the law of 
primogeniture were still unquestionable. It was a point 
on which the Gatesdens were fanatic, a channel into 
which was turned from earliest youth the whole force of 
their family pride. Each will recorded in the Grays- 
ville court-house, generation after generation, continued 
the traditional disposal of the property. 

For the younger branches of the family, no treason 
could seem blacker than that which might, for selfish 
ends, attempt the disruption of the estate. This was the 
doctrine in which John Gatesden had been bred up. It 
was a doctrine, moreover, which local feeling highly ap¬ 
proved. Though the estates of the Washingtons and 
the Randolphs were falling, one by one, into the vandal 
hands of aliens, Virginians might expect Kingswell to 
stand intact against the tide of changing conditions so 
long as the Gatesdens were not unfaithful to the tradi¬ 
tion of their race. 

Gatesden’s black caretaker, Dennis, moving with 
characteristic deliberation about the removal of dust and 
tobacco-ash, was startled one midsummer morning by an 
unwonted apparition. It was while Dennis, with head 
and shoulders bent far out of the front-office window, 
was wholly absorbed in the forbidden but labor-saving 
device of emptying a heaping dust-pan between the bars 


386 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

of the grating in the pavement below. 

‘I reckon Mister John Gatson lives here?' drawled 
the voice of an unseen speaker, belonging clearly to a 
circle of society in which Dennis and his master did not 
move. 

Inasmuch as Dennis had cautiously scanned the 
pavement up and down before venturing to display the 
objectionable dust-pan, the interruption was distinctly 
alarming to an uneasy conscience. He raised himself 
with a haste which brought his shoulders into sharp con¬ 
tact with the uplifted sash and left him pilloried un¬ 
comfortably in the window, while the dust-pan, diverted 
from its aim, pored an accusing heap of cigar-stumps 
directly beside the doorstep. 

It required several startled glances to discover the 
speaker, seated on a weather-beaten spring-wagon be¬ 
side the curbstone, where he had been waiting irresolutely 
for several minutes. Losing his alarm, Dennis stared 
in growing disapproval at this intruder, who continued 
to sit on the hard, unbacked wagon-seat in the character¬ 
istic attitude of mingled apathy and nervousness. Arms 
and legs were twisted awkwardly as if their owner 
sought to deprecate their superfluous length. The face, 
that of a man of forty, was covered with a growth of 
sandy hair in which moustache and beard merged in- 
distinguishably. The only visible garments, besides the 
rough shoes and wide, chip hat, were a collarless shirt 
of brown cotton check, and overalls, originally dark-blue, 
but worn to a faded gray at the knees and other points 
of friction. The wagon, drawn by an aged mule, was 
laden with home-made baskets containing berries. Evi¬ 
dently the stranger was a ‘mountain man’ from the Blue 
Ridge beyond the Shenandoah, a member of the class 
which in the judgment of the negro population ranks 
lowest in the social scale. 

“Does Mr. Gatson live here?” repeated Dennis 
derisively, forgetting his embarrassment in the agree¬ 
able sense of superiority to his interlocutor. “Every¬ 
body that knows anything knows that Mr. Gatson resides 
at Kingswell! ’ 9 


CHARLES FREDERICK TUCKER BROOKE 387 


“Wall,” replied the stranger, “they tole me at the 
co’t-house to count five doors up the street on the right, 
and this here is the lift’, and yonder is his name.” 

He pointed to the sign, “John Gatesden, Attorney 
at Law,” beside the doorway. 

“Dis here is Mr. Gatson’s orffice,” acknowledged 
the Negro grudgingly, “whar he comes to trans-form 
business with his friends, but he ain’t never here befo’ 
ten. ’ ’ 

“Kin I see him ef I wait till ten?” persisted the 
other, glancing at the clock on the court-house, which 
now pointed to nine-forty. 

“I cain’t exac’ly say,” replied Dennis. “Mister 
John he don't have to be so powerful on time like a dur¬ 
ance agent or that kin’ o’ trash; and he don’t see folks 
’cep an’ he wants to. How come he to know you?” 

“He’ll be bound to know me, all right, and my 
father, too. Leastways he had ought to, bein’ as he’s the 
son of Colonel Bevis Gatson. ’ ’ 

Dennis drew in his head with ponderous dignity 
and set about the completion of his duties without an¬ 
other glance at the occupant of the wagon. The anti¬ 
pathy between the mountain whites, the pariahs of the 
district, and the old family Negroes, who regard them¬ 
selves as a part of the dominant class, is as natural as 
that between cat and dog. Dennis resented the intru¬ 
sion of this “po white trash” as an affront to his own 
dignity and his master’s. He would gladly have driven 
him away; but his only weapons, discouragement and 
condescension, were clearly ineffectual. Moreover, the 
Negro was a little impressed by the stranger’s familiar 
allusion to Gatesden’s father, and by his correct local 
pronunciation of the name. “Gatson,” he had pro¬ 
nounced it. Had he said “Gates-den,” as strangers of¬ 
ten did, Dennis would have felt justified in turning him 
from the door as an arrant intruder. 

Half an hour later, when John Gatesden walked in¬ 
to his office, after leaving his horse and buggy as usual 


388 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

at the livery-stable in the next street, he found Dennis 
abstractedly polishing the backs of his books, as if obliv¬ 
ious of every other concern. 

“Nobody called this morning, Dennis?” he asked. 

“No, Mister John,” answered the Negro; “there 
ain’t been no callers—not dess you count a old moun¬ 
tain man with berries. He mought be out there still,” 
he continued, with an elaborate affectation of doubt 
concerning the continued presence of the stranger. “I 
jes’ knowed you didn’t want to see the likes of him; 
but them folks is powerful hard to decompose when they 
gets set on a thing.” 

A glance through the window in the direction of 
Dennis’s scornful nod showed John the previously un¬ 
noticed mountaineer, still immobile on the wagon-seat. 
Gatesden returned to the door. 

“I am afraid you have been kept waiting for me,” 
he said, with his charming smile. ‘ ‘ I am Mr. Gatesden. ’ ’ 

For answer, the mountaineer straightened out his 
long legs and climbed stiffly out of the wagon. From 
among the litter of baskets behind, he took a stained and 
misshapen leather receptacle about the size of a long 
boot. Then he folowed Gatesden into the office. Simul¬ 
taneously Dennis retired with stately disgust through 
the door into the rear room. 

At the threshold the visitor stopped nervously . 

“My name is Jackson,” he said; “Bevis Jackson 
from Otter Crick over thar in the mountain, fifteen mile 
t’ other side of the river. My father was Bevis Jackson 
too, and he was in Colonel Gatson’s regiment in the 
wah. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I have often heard my father speak of him,” 
exclaimed John, real interest replacing quizzical curios¬ 
ity in his face. “When he raised a company, Bevis 
Jackson was one of the first to volunteer. He was his 
companion twice on scouting duty, and it was Bevis 
Jackson that dragged him to shelter when he was shot in 
the last charge at Malvern Hill.” 

“The old Colonel allers treated Pap real handsome 


CHARLES FREDERICK TUCKER BROOKE 389 

when he come to town. He wanted to deed him our land 
in Otter Crick, because he said it was down in the co’t- 
house books that it belonged to the Gatsons. But Pap 
he wouldn’t take no new deed, for we uns alters knowed 
that the land is ours. We ain’t never been squatters 
and our papers is all in here,” Jackson concluded, as he 
laid the old leathern bag on the desk. 

“Of course, you know that your possession will 
never be interfered with by any of us, even if we should 
be able to do so; but if you will accept the formal deed 
to your farm which your father declined, we can quickly 
make your title absolutely clear.’ ’ 

“Tain’t that that made me come to you,” answered 
Jackson, quickly. “We know that you all wouldn’t 
never make us any trouble, and w'e know the land has 
always been rightly our’n. But this here lumber com¬ 
pany from Roanoke has been nosin’ about, and they have 
drove stakes clean across our wood-lot. The engineer 
fellow allows as how it belongs to them. So I thought 
if maybe you could look through this here and tell me 
how things stand, I n feel safer like when them folks 
comes back to begin choppin’.” 

He pushed the bag farther across the desk in Gates- 
den’s direction. 

‘ ‘ I shall be delighted to do so, ’ ’ said John. ‘ ‘ It will 
be only a small repayment of the debt we owe you. 
Leave me the papers and come back, if you can, about 
one o’clock.” 

The man nodded with an abruptness which was far 
from uncivil. 

“I got to peddle my berries aroun’ and buy some 
truck. I reckon I’ll be back by one.” 

He climbed into his wagon and after clucking sev¬ 
eral times to the irresponsive mule, lumbered down the 
street at an irregular trot which drove the berry baskets 
clattering from side to side. 

John took up the bag from the desk and looked at it 
curiously. It weighed perhaps five or six pounds, and 
though much discolored and misshapen, was still so stout 


390 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

as to seem almost air-tight. It was clearly a saddle-bag 
of the type carried by gentlemen of the eighteenth cen¬ 
tury, when travel in this region was all by horseback. 
Evidently, too, it had belonged to a person of distinc¬ 
tion, for the mountings were of silver and a great plate 
of the same metal on the flap bore the armorial badge of 
some family, now tarnished beyond recognition. The 
lock John found much stronger than he would have 
imagined from its sn^all size and ornamental appearance. 
Though the silver key had been left within the keyhole, it 
refused for a long time to turn. Apparently the lock 
had set from long disuse. 

John poured a drop of machine-oil into the keyhole, 
and, while waiting for the lubricant to work, occupied 
himiself with the engraved silver plate. Taking the 
chambis-skin cover of his watch, he rubbed the tarnished 
metal several minutes, till the inscription began to grow 
legible. 

As the letters under the arms appeared, he uttered 
an exclamation. It was the Gatesden motto, “Jus suum 
euique,” that the bag bore. On the shield above could 
be traced, though very dimly, the outline of the scroll 
and balance of the Gatesden crest. Tense with inter¬ 
est, John turned again to the lock. The oil had had its 
effect, and the key now turned. 

The first glance inside the case was disappointing. 
It revealed only a squat little volume, mouldering with 
damp and age, a Greek Testament with the imprint, 
“Oxoniae, 1760.” Laying it aside, John examined the 
bag itself more particularly, and discovered, sewed 
against the side, a kind of oil-skin envelope designed for 
the carrying of papers. He unbuttoned this inner case 
and drew forth several documents which, though yellow¬ 
ed, had been preserved from decay. The largest paper 
was a rent-roll of the Gatesden property, drawn up in 
the year 1774. An official parchment beside it pro¬ 
claimed the appointment of Bevis Gatesden, of the coun¬ 
ty of Frederick in Virginia, Esquire, stamp commission¬ 
er for western Virginia, and representative, under Lord 


CHARLES FREDERICK TUCKER BROOKE 391 


Dunmore, of the authority of King George the Third. 

A rough note, written as John recognized in the 
hand of his Revolutionary great-grandfather, was the 
only other paper. It ran as follows:— 

Williamsburg, June 8, 1775. 

Honoured Brother: 

It seems my duty to acquaint you, as our late Fa¬ 
ther's representative and the head of our Family, that I 
have this day taken an action, which, though it may not 
occasion you surprise, will, I doubt not, give you vexation 
and grief. I have bound myself with many gentlemen 
of the Colony to resist the enforcement of His Majesty’s 
late measures and the will of his Governor. Lord Dun- 
more hath retired in anger from the city and the bur¬ 
gesses no longer venture to hope for a peaceful issue. I 
have not the hardihood to flatter myself that you will 
regard my step without anger; but I beg you to reflect 
that, should our undertakings miscarry, you are like at 
least to be no more troubled by a young half-brother who 
has already caused you too much displeasure. I am, Sir, 
Your obedient, humble brother, 

John Gatesden. 

For a long time Gatesden fingered the papers. What 
an interesting relic of his old Tory ancestor, of whose 
passionate loyalty to King George many stories were 
still rife! By what curious accident, he mused, could 
this memorial of his family have lain for generations in 
the possession of the Jacksons? And then he suddenly 
remembered. Otter Creek lay deep in the heart of the 
Blue Ridge, visited even to-day by none but its sparse 
mountaineer population and a few hunters of wild tur¬ 
key. Gatesden himself had never been there. It was 
somewhere in this inaccessible part of the county that 
old Bevis Gatesden had been killed, according to family 
history, in a desperate attempt to secrete the King’s 
munitions from the rising colonists. Overtaken in a 
ravine of the mountains, the old fellow had long fought 
in defense of the royal stores, and finally, after the dis- 


392 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

persal of his followers, had ridden off the field like 
Hampden, wounded and alone, to die, it was supposed, 
somewhere in the wilds. The body was never recover¬ 
ed; but there stood in the burying ground at Kingswell 
a monument to his memory with the inscription, “Officio 
fortiter perfunctus pro rege et fide vitam deposuit.” 

The saddle-bag had doubtless been taken from the 
old man’s horse by the mountaineers who witnessed his 
death. It was a most precious heirloom, to be recovered 
at all costs and treasured with the other family relics at 
Kingswell. John carefully replaced the papers in the 
pocket from which he had taken them, revolving in his 
mind as he did so the arguments by which he might best 
obtain Jackson’s surrender of the curio. 

As he rebuttoned the pocket, his eyes fell again upon 
the Testament. Holding the little volume in both 
hands, he carefully opened the stiffened leather and 
turned over the pages in search of annotations. On the 
fly-leaves at the back of the book he found several pages 
of manuscript, written in inferior ink and much more 
weather-stained than the papers in the pocket. 

As Gatesden slowly deciphered the faded writing, 
the look of satisfaction died out of his face. His cheeks 
flushed uncomfortably, and he felt a chill settling about 
his heart. According to the inscription on the Kings¬ 
well cenotaph, old Bevis Gatesden had died in 1775; but 
the first note in the book was dated 1778. This is what 
John read:— 

October 9, 1778, I, Bevis Gatesden, late representa¬ 
tive of his Majesty in these parts, was this day married by 
a travelling parson, one Thomas Eckles, to Joan Ellerslie, 
a peasant wench by whom I have been nursed these 
three years past through wounds and fever. This I have 
done in sound mind, though still infirm health, being de¬ 
termined to pass the poor remainder of my days among 
these people who have sheltered and preserved me when 
my own have cast me off. God knows I can do naught 
else, for my lands, save these barren hills, are in posses¬ 
sion of the rebels, and my fractured thigh prevents me 


CHARLES FREDERICK TUCKER BROOKE 393 


from sitting horse again in his Majesty 's service. 

the next entry, written in a hand more wavering 
and illegible, ran crookedly across the middle of a page: 

March 4, 1780. On this day was baptized my son 
Bevis, called by the name of his forefathers, though like 
to know naught of his heritage. Better that my un¬ 
happy strain continue in obscurity than that it contami¬ 
nate the Gatesden stock with peasant blood and enjoy 
its patrimony by truckling to disloyalty and rebellion! 

To John Gatesden, as he pored over the last crabbed 
letters, the whole story became suddenly clear. He was 
unconscious of any course of ratiocination, however 
short; nor did he feel the slightest doubt concerning the 
over-powering conclusion to which his mind leaped. 
This mountaineer, Bevis Jackson, bearing like his father 
the unusual Christian name of the Gatesdens, was the 
descendant of the elder Bevis of the Revolution, the old 
Tory whom the family records assumed to have died 
without issue. It was he, not John, who represented the 
senior branch and to whom, according to the inviolable 
rule, the family estate should have descended. Even the 
name of Jackson, which he now bore, was convincing 
evidence. Gatesden was in vulgar pronunciation Gat- 
son, and Gatson w r ould inevitably pass into Jackson 
among the leveling influences of the backwoods. 

The hours which dragged away before the return of 
Jackson were for John Gatesden the most poignant of his 
life. Too honest to dodge realization of the new state 
of affairs, he was yet incapable of perceiving any toler¬ 
able course of action. What could he do which should 
be just and honorable at once to this uncouth stranger, 
to himself, and to his trust as fiduciary of the family 
dignity ? Like all men bred to a high sense of personal 
responsibility, he had horror amounting almost to phys¬ 
ical repulsion for anything flashily melodramie or hys¬ 
terical. By heaven, if this man, whose existence shook 
down about him all the stately edifice of his self-satis¬ 
faction, were an equal, a gentleman, he could see his way 
and follow it to its logical end of personal renunciation. 


394 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

But to make himself and all that his birth and position 
represented a butt for wide-mouthed gossip by investing 
this vulgar jay in the plumes which had lain so grace¬ 
fully upon his ancestors and himself—to do this wanton¬ 
ly, without legal compulsion for the gratification of a 
whimsical, squeamish honor—would be not noble, but 
hideously grotesque. 

To John there seemed no escape from the horrible 
dilemma. Before his brain three ideas kept repeating 
themselves monotonously, as though he should never be 
able either to dismiss or to harmonize them. The family 
motto on the bag, “Jus suum cuique,” “To every man 
his due;” the old law of the exclusive right of the elder 
branch, which seemed the holier now that it depended no 
longer upon legal force but upon race loyalty and devo¬ 
tion ;—these seemed to keep hammering themselves upon 
his throbbing temples; while beside them kept rising in 
hideous discord the image of the mountaineer, himself 
the negation of the qualities of hereditary nobility which 
all this rigid machinery of succession had been framed 
to perpetuate. 

The actual appearance of Jackson, standing in the 
doorway, unannounced by knock or salutation, was a re¬ 
lief. Something in the man's shyness appealed to John’s 
own embarrassment. He felt that they were less rivals 
than comrades in the bizarre adventure wdiich fate had 
let suddenly fall upon them. 

“Sit down,” he said, after a glance of friendly 
hesitation. “How much can you tell me about the ori¬ 
ginal owner of these things?” he asked as he began to 
take out the contents of the bag. 

“The old squire, you mean?” answered the other. 
“He was Pap's grandfather, but he died long before Pap 
was born, I reckon. They say he never got over the 
wounds he got when he first come to Otter Crick. He’d 
been fightin the Injuns or the Britishers, I reckon. His 
boss brought him up to our cabin and after he got a 
little better he was married to Pap’s grandmother. He 
is buried in the burying-ground at the forks of the road. 


CHARLES FREDERICK TUCKER BROOKE 395 

They allers said as how he was a great man at home, but 
we never rightly knowed jest whar he come from.” 

“His name was really Bevis Gatesden. He was the 
owner of the Kingswell estate, which passed to my great¬ 
grandfather, because he was supposed to have died un¬ 
married. According to the family rules, the property 
should have remained with your branch and descended 
to you, I suppose, not to me.” John went on slowly. 
“Here is the evidence of your ancestor’s marriage and 
of the birth of his son.” 

He read aloud the entries in the Testament. 

“And you mean the law would take your land and 
give it to me, if this here was known?” asked Jackson, 
in supreme astonishment. 

‘ ‘ Probably not; but we have always settled our fam¬ 
ily affairs without invoking the law, and we have settled 
them justly. The question is what is just here ? ’ ’ 

“It says thar in the book that the old squire didn’t 
want Pap’s father to get the land.” 

“That wouldn’t bar this title,” answered John. 
“It looks to me as if the property is rightfully yours.” 

“You don’t mean that you would give it to me with¬ 
out having to?” 

“I don’t know. You must help me to decide. I 
don’t see how I could keep what is morally not mine.” 

The mountaineer sat for a moment downcast. The 
unconscious melancholy of his expression was intensified 
as he thought. John bit his lips as he stared at the wall, 
irritated with himself for his inability to deal decisively 
with the situation. 

After two or three minutes, Jackson looked up. The 
shy awkwardness of his manner, which astonishment had 
for a moment shaken off, was again upon him. 

“If you please, Mr. Gatson, do you reckon that I 

could see this place that was my—that was the old 

• > > > 
squire s i 

“Certainly,” answered John. “I drive back for 
lunch. Come with me now.” 

Gatesden’s fast trotter covered the two miles to 


396 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

KingsweU in ten minutes. Neither man spoke during 
the drive. John was a prey to the keen annoyance with 
himself, which fills the conscientious person when he 
scents unpleasant duty and cannot decide upon his 
course of action. The stranger gazed wide-eyed at the 
evidences of prosperity along the road, at the handsome 
iron gates adorning the entrance to the estate, at the 
long avenue, and the low, capacious sweep of the house's 
facade. 

Seated tete-a-tete with John in the long dining 
room, under the withering scowls of the waiter, Jackson 
won the cordial respect of his host. To the natural dig¬ 
nity of the mountaineer he joined a quick power of ob¬ 
servation which preserved his manners from rudeness 
even in the unfamiliar environment. John's rare gift of 
hospitality was called into play as he led his guest to for¬ 
get his embarrassment and entertained him with family 
anecdotes. By the end of the meal all stiffness had dis¬ 
appeared. 

In the spirit of congeniality which arises from the 
recognition of common interest, the two men passed 
from a survey of the portraits on the walls to the ex¬ 
amination of the tombstones in the burying-ground out¬ 
side. Still occupied with question and answer about the 
family and the history of KingsweU, they returned to 
the town. 

The old. gray mule, standing disconsolate before 
the office door, seemed to wake Jackson from a dream. 
In a kind of stage fright he tumbled from the cushioned 
seat upon which he had been reclining^in unembarrassed 
ease, and stood twirling his hat nervously between his 
fingers. 

‘‘You have given me a day. Mister Gatson," he stam¬ 
mered, ‘‘that I won't ever forget, and—and that will 
maybe help me to make something of myself. And if 
you are stiU agreeable to let me have the deed for the 
Otter Crick land, I’U take it and thank you.” 

“But, my dear fellow,” answered John in surprise, 
“we can't dispose of the matter so easily. Don’t you 



CHARLES FREDERICK TUCKER BROOKE 397 

see that as the representative of the elder branch of our 
family, you should be the owner of all my property— 
not by the present law, perhaps, but morally and ac¬ 
cording to the intention of the original proprietors of the 
estate ? 5 ’ 

“Me?” cried Jackson, in genuine fright. “Do you 
think I could be mean enough or fool enough to take 
that? I'd be plain miserable, anyway, with them nig¬ 
gers and the other folks scoffin’ at me.” 

“Well, that’s our problem, cousin,” said John 
frankly. “I can’t fancy myself standing in another 
man’s shoes.” 

“Tell me,” asked Jackson suddenly, “why they 
started this silly rule about the property.” 

“Why, mainly to insure its remaining intact in the 
family. ’ ’ 

“And you feel uncomfortable about it because I am 
the oldest son of the oldest son all the way down ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“But if I had an older brother, or my father had 
had, then it would go to him, and I wouldn’t have no 
claim ? ’ ’ 

“That was the old principle.” 

“Then you needn’t be nowise disturbed, sir,” said 
Jackson, looking his hearer clearly in the eye, “for Pap 
had an older brother named John, who left home befo’ 
the wah. I reckon he went out West when they was talk¬ 
in’ so much about gold in Californy. We ain’t heard 
nothin’ of him lately, and we ain’t likely to; but even 
supposin’ he war my own brother and the dearest kin I 
had, I’d throw him off clean ef he would do sech a low- 
down mean thing as take a penny’s worth of what is 
yourn. You see, sir,” he went on with a flushed face, 
“We uns has allers had our pride too. That’s why we 
wouldn’t take the old colonel’s offer to deed us that land 
—he bein’ a stranger, as we thought. And now, ef we 
can think of you, livin’ here so fine and noble, as our kin 
and what you call the head of our family, it’ll make us 
a deal happier than ten times the land would. It’ll do 


398 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

me real good, sir, that will, and maybe help me to get 
over bein’ so shiftless and no-count.” 

He wrung John’s hand hard and mounted his old 
wagon. The mule trotted once more d'own the street. 
The empty baskets rattled. John Gatesden looked after 
the man with friendly eyes. Then he turned into the 
office. The prim tidiness of the room smote him sud¬ 
denly with sharp reproach. How amateurish and inef¬ 
fectual his life was! How ready he had been to deck 
himself in borrowed plumes! The rude awakening to 
his false position had taught him his lesson, thank God! 
The Kingswell heritage, falsely his, which had so long 
lulled him in complacent idleness, would be in future 
his sharpest goad. 

One possible avenue of escape into the world of liv¬ 
ing activity lay before him. An election for the office 
of prosecuting attorney of the county was nearly due. 
In this region, with its large tracts of mountain wilder¬ 
ness, it was a post of much labor, and even danger, and 
of infinitesimal profit, sought usually only by desperate 
beginners at the law. He would be ridiculed for desir¬ 
ing it, but he could doubtless have it for the asking. It 
would give him at least hard work and a start. 

He crossed the room to the neatly folded Figaro on 
his table, tore it, and flung the fragments into the scrap- 
basket. The old exhilaration of his college days beat in- 
toxicatingly about his temples; the very office air seem¬ 
ed wine and iron. In the flush of the new dawn his 
mind turned again to the image of the departed moun¬ 
taineer. 

“He’s worthy of his stock,” he murmured. “I sup¬ 
pose he was lying in what he said about his uncle ? Who 
knows? But he is right. The trust is mine, and with 
God’s help I will hold it as highly as I may.” 

The Atlantic Monthly, 1913. 


ST. JOHN BYER 


S t. John Byer, a descendant of the Rhine Palatines 
who settled in the Valley of Virginia when their 
homes were destroyed by Louis XIV of France, is 
a native of Shepherdstown, West Virginia. In early 
life, Mr. Byer entered the profession of teaching. For 
a time, he was an assistant in the Hagerstown Academy, 
and later became a professor in the Lancaster Male Sem¬ 
inary. 

He began writing for the press as music and drama¬ 
tic critic of The Louisville-Courier Journal, to which he 
also contributed several stories. Then he accepted a 
position in New York as editor of The Art Journal. In 
1915, he published “Stories in Rhyme, Elegies and 
Lyrics.” From time to time, he has contributed to The 
Shepherdstown Register, a number of interesting 
sketches dealing with the history of Shepherdstowm. 

Mr. Byer has traveled in Europe and has spent 
much of his time among artists and musicians. His 
special study has been concerning the connection be¬ 
tween song and speech. He is now engaged in prepar¬ 
ing for publication a work on ‘ ‘ The Tone Scales of Ora¬ 
tory. ’ ’ 

RENUNCIATION 

Ah, yes, my friend, full well I know 
The steep path up the mountain side 
To dry, chill heights of fame and pride 
Where laurels grow. 

But none for me, with weary feet 
I’ll seek the lowly vale and stream 
There rest my remnant out, and dream 
’Neath shadows sweet, 

Where willows fanned by soft winds, sweep 
O’er waters, whose low murmuring calls 
On toward Lethe, till life falls 
In dreamless sleep. 

399 


400 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


THE ANGELUS 

Ring on! ring on! sweet evening bells, 

The vibrant air with music swells 
While red watch-fires of sunset burn 
To light the wanderer's long return. 

Ring—o’er these calm, deep waters come 
Your well-known sounds, sweet bells of home 
In listening trance, once more I stand 
On threshold of youth’s morningland, 

Ring on sweet angelus! 

Ring on! the air more tender gleams 
With shimmering tones, and youth’s bright 
dreams 

As fleet from shore of far-off times 
Float back on wavelets of your chimes. 
Childhood’s high voices ring full glad. 

In undertone, sweet, low and sad 
A mother sings her lullaby; 

Dear sounds, whose memories never die. 
Ring on sweet angelus! 

Ring on; ring ever, evening bells, 

Your sound a sweeter music tells 
Than wind harp from the elfin shore; 

I fain would listen evermore. 

0 do not cease,—the sunset clime 
Makes crimson echo to your chime; 

Nor yet the vesper star doth bring 
The closing hush of eve—O ring, 

Ring on sweet angelus. 


LENA GRIFFIN McBEE 


L ena Griffin McBee was born in Stanford, Ken¬ 
tucky. She was graduated from the Stanford and 
the Millersburg Academy. In 1904, she was mar¬ 
ried to Mr. Claude McBee of Morgantown, West Vir¬ 
ginia, where she now resides. Mrs. McBee has taught 
for several years in the State. She is the author of a 
number of poems and nature essays that have been pub¬ 
lished in educational journals. 


WOODS IN MAY 

Exult, 0 Heart! at the scene of it, 

At the purple, the pink and the green of it, 
—Of the woods in May 
On a sunny day— 

And the glad new quivering sheen of it. 

When the flush of the red-bud’s bright in it 

And the dog-wood’s pallor’s white in it 
And trillium’s pink 
On the cliffs of ink 

Where the brook leaps out for delight in it. 

And they’ve spilled the larkspurs down in it 

On the carpet of ray-splashed brown in it— 
O surging Heart, 

Purloin some part 

Of the gleam of the Sun-King’s crown in it. 

One ray from the glittering hall of it 

Shall allay the pain of the call of it 
In the ordered gloom 
Of the office room 

That shuts thee, to-morrow, from all of it. 

401 



402 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

RHODODENDRON 

In the deepening mold of the gray old ledges 
Where the year’s new verdure closes around 
By the cool swift brooks of fern-hung edges, 
The leathery green of the laurel is found, 
Green of the rare rhododendron is found. 

When thrushes and vireos vie in thrilling 
Paeans of melody into the wold, 

Pink comes the laurel, with color-warmth filling 
The monotoned forest, begin to unfold, 

Buds of the rare rhododendron unfold. 

Their rose to a gradfual whiteness is melting 
As fervor of youth fades to age’s pale calm, 
Their billowy clusters of purity pelting 

My soul with recurrent and exquisite balm, 
With snow of the rare rhododendron’s sweet 
balm. 


MOONLIGHT SCHOOLS 

From red brush uplands, thatched with sassafras, 

And fields of broom-sage comes a motley class 
Of uncouth young and wizened old in rough, 
Clay-spattered brogans, jeans and cotton stuff, 

Seeking the Moonlight School. And prompt are they 
To seize the propitious eve, whom chary day 
Denied the golden hour. Patient they stand 
With primer gripped in hoe-wise, horny hand, 
Learning to read; and some at desks too small 
Piece out their names in piteous, painful scrawl. 

—To sign one’s name achievement were indeed, 

And Holy Book or letter learn to read. 

When Life, insatiate Shylock, shall no more 
Exact his pound of flesh at my heart’s core, 



LENA GRIFFIN McBEE 


403 


0 God! Admit me to Thy Moonlight School— 
Ungainly me, the broken, aged fool 
Of Circumstance, who yearned withal to know. 

Enroll me. Teach my unskilled hand to go 
Smooth across Time’s white page, where I had thought 
To set my name by day, yet toiled untaught. 

Teach me to read Thy mystic book of Truth 
Whose symbolism tortured all my youth. 

—The obscure complexities of Now and Here, 

Shall not Thy moonlight teaching make them clear ? 

Prom Education, January, 1921. By permision of 
The Palmer Company, (Boston, Mass.) Publishers. 


NINA BLUNDON WILLS 


N ina Blundon Wills (Mrs. Woodson T. Wills) was 
born in Winfield, Pntnam County, West Virginia. 
Her father, Edgar E. Blundon, a native of Ohio, 
served in West Virginia as a major in the Union Army. 
At the close of the Civil war, he entered the ministry 
as a member of the West Virginia Conference of the Meth¬ 
odist Episcopal Church. Her mother, Sarah Frances 
Young Blundon, was a daughter of Captain John Val¬ 
ley Young, also of the Union Army. Soon after the 
death of her husband at Burning Springs, Mrs. Blundon 
with her two children, Nina and Elizabeth, removed to 
Charleston, where she spent the remainder of her life. 

Mrs. Wills is a graduate of the Charleston High 
School, and of the Wheeling Female College. For a 
year prior to her marriage to Woodson T. Wills of Fay¬ 
ette County, West Virginia, she was employed as teacher 
in the Charleston public schools. She is a member of 
the Methodist Episcopal Church, Kanawha Valley Chap¬ 
ter Daughters of the American Revolution, the Woman’s 
Christian Temperance Union, and the Woman’s Relief 
Corps, auxiliary to Blundon Post, Grand Army of the 
Republic. She is active in Woman’s Club work, having 
served for two years, 1919-’21, as president of the West 
Virginia Federation of Woman’s Clubs. She has writ¬ 
ten a number of poems, and has contributed, from time 
to time, a variety of articles to newspapers and maga¬ 
zines. 

Mrs. Wills is the mother of two sons, both of whom 
were volunteer soldiers in the American Army during 
the World War. 

THANKSGIVING 

Not for fields of ripened grain,— 

Fruit of summer’s warmth and rain; 

Not for orchards red and gold, 

Nor for vineyards rare and old; 

404 


NINA BLUNDON WILLS 


405 


Not alone for home and health, 

And sweet friendship’s untold wealth; 

Not for all the joys I see 
Give I thanks, 0 Lord, to Thee; 

But of kindly words I cast 
Some found fertile soil at last,— 

Sank within a tender heart— 

Grew and yielded well their part; 

And my life has fuller grown 
As I’ve reaped what I have sown. 

For this harvest rich to me 
Give I thanks, 0 Lord, to Thee. 

CHRISTMAS 

Christmas, day of joyful greeting!— 

Hearts are filled with hallowed cheer— 

’Tis the hour for great rejoicing, 

’Tis the glad time of the year. 

With a smile for those about us, 

Tender words for whom we love; 

With a gift to those who need it, 

And a song to God above, 

We are happy in bestowing 
Just the best that life can find, 

And our spirit breathes a blessing,— 

Peace, good will to all mankind. 

AMERICA’S PRAYER 
0, Father-God, in truth ’tis not for wealth 
Of nations that we plead; nor yet the power 
To rule on land and sea. ’Tis not for fame 
That’s won by sacrifice; and not alone 
For victory; but strength to stay the hand 
That slays the helpless innocent, and crush 
The thing that stills the voice of liberty; 

To rise from wreck of war with stainless flag 
And honored name; with faith and hope on which 
To build for future good; and then, to know, 
With all humanity, the joy of peace— 

Enduring peace throughout the world. Amen. 
(Written September, 1917) 


CLYDE BEECHER JOHNSON 


C lyde Beecher Johnson, eldest son of James L. and 
Anna C. (Martin) Johnson, was born on June 17, 
1871 on a farm in Pleasants County, West Virginia. 
His mother, who was a teacher of ability, was a college 
graduate, and a woman of brilliant intellect and rare cul¬ 
ture, and to her Mr. Johnson owes m'uch of his success. 
After attending the common schools, he spent some time 
as a student at West Virginia Wesleyan College. He 
taught school for eight years, and in the meantime de¬ 
voted himself to the study of law. He was admitted to 
the bar in 1895, and spent one year at Sistersville in the 
practice of his profession. He then located at Saint 
Mary’s where he practiced law until July 1, 1913, when 
he went to Charleston where he formed a partnership 
with Hon. William G. Conley. Mr. Johnson has won 
wide recognition for his ability as a lawyer, and for his 
eloquence as an orator. 

In 1898, he married Miss Anna Grace Hart of Ran¬ 
dolph County. They have a daughter, Myra Grace, and 
a son, Clyde Bosworth. 

Mr. Johnson is a Presbyterian and a Democrat and 
says that he is “proud of both relations.” His party 
recently honored him by electing him State Senator 
from the Eighth District. 

He has not allowed the exacting demands of an ex¬ 
tensive law practice to prevent his devoting a small part 
of his time to literary pursuits, and has done some edi¬ 
torial work and has written a number of charming 
verses, some of which he has collected in an ; t tractive 
little volume entitled “Rhyme and Reason.” 

THE WILD EASTER LILY 
In sheltered, cool and mossy bed, 

Whence winter snows have early fled 
Before spring sunshine softly shed, 

Blooms Nature’s Easter Lily. 

406 


CLYDE BEECHER JOHNSON 


407 


Not all the modern florists, skilled 
In rarest lotus, new and frilled, 

The simple place have ever filled, 

Of Nature’s Easter Lily. 

What sought I as an eager child, 

In April sunshine sweet and mild, 

When weirdly, strongly called the wild, 
But Nature’s Easter Lily? 

I knew so well, then, where to look, 
Beside the restless, laughing brook, 

That gentle dewdrops softly shook 
On Nature’s Easter Lily. 

No other flower with half the grace 
Of this, that in sequestered place 
Hides modestly her sainted face;— 
Sweet Nature’s Easter Lily. 

No flowers so sweet on Easter Morn, 

Did chancel rail so well adorn, 

As Margerie’s from woodland borne; 
Her sweetest Easter Lilies. 

With purest white turned to the skies, 
The risen Lord it typifies, 

And life in Heaven prophesies; 

This fairest Easter Lily. 

No cultivated flower can be 
What this wild jewel is to me; 

For in its queenly form I see 
One rare, sweet Lily;— 

Whose life, pure as this fair flower 
Made me know a sister’s power, 

But, Alas! who vanished in an hour, 
Like Nature’s Easter Lily. 


408 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


THE VOICES OF AUTUMN 

With breath that chills, 

While yet it thrills, 

Comes tang of autumn day; 

But whether sad, 

Or whether glad, 

It’s message, who can say ? 

Like all the things 
That Nature brings, 

It croons a dual song, 

Its joyous tone 
Is not alone 

To greet the list’ning throng. 

The golden horn 
Of autumn’s morn, 

With plenty in the land, 

Brings song of praise 
For peaceful days, 

And Wisdom’s guiding hand. 

But as we note, 

The golden coat 
The forest dons for fall, 

We hear full well 
A sombre knell— 

A summer's dying call. 

A year has past— 

Mayhap the last,— 

We do not—should not—know, 
One less ahead 
For all to tread, 

With faltering steps, and slow. 

Thus side by side, 

These voices glide 
Adown the autumn breezes; 
Which is the glad, 

And which the sad, 

Each heart hears as it pleases. 


ROBERT ALLEN ARMSTRONG 


R obert Allen Armstrong, son of Jared Armstrong 
and Eliza (Bennett) Armstrong, was born at 
Frenchton, Upshur County, West Virginia, Septem¬ 
ber 23, 1860. In 1886, Doctor Armstrong was graduated 
from West Virginia University with the degree of A. B., 
and in 1889 received an A. M. degree from that institu¬ 
tion. He spent the year 1902-’03 in graduate study at 
Harvard University where he received an M. A. degree. 
Allegheny College conferred upon him the degree of 
L. H. D. in 1908. 

Doctor Armstrong has had a distinguished career 
as an educator. From 1886 to 1893, he was principal 
of West Liberty State Normal School. For the past 
thirty years, he has been a prominent member of the 
faculty of West Virginia University. From 1893 to 
1901, he was professor of English, and, from 1897 to 
1899, vice-president of the University. Since 1901, he 
has been professor of English language and literature, 
and since 1903 has been head of the English depart¬ 
ment. During the summer term of 1921, he served as 
exchange professor in the University of Missouri. Doctor 
Armstrong is an inspiring teacher and possesses un¬ 
usual ability to create in his students an appreciation of 
literature. 

He is one of the most popular lecturers of our 
State. For years his services as an institute instructor 
have been greatly in demand in West Virginia, Pennsyl¬ 
vania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. 

From 1904 to 1921, Doctor Armstrong was editor of 
The West Virginia School Journal to which he made 
many interesting and valuable contributions. He has 
also published many articles in various other educa¬ 
tional journals. He is the author of “Life out of 
Death,” “The Law of Service,” “Historical and Liter¬ 
ary Outlines of the Bible,” “Dramatic Interpretations 


409 


410 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

of Shakespeare’s Tragedies,” and, “Mastering the 
Books of the Bible.” 

In 1900, Doctor Armstrong married Carrie Louise 
Dent of Grafton, West Virginia who died in 1903, leav¬ 
ing a daughter, Virginia Dent Armstrong. In 1914, he 
married Myra L. Shank of Auburn, New York. They 
have three children: Roberta Jean, Barbara Allen, and 
Keith Stuart. 


ONE OF THE MANY 

There’s a new m,ade grave in Flander’s Fields; 
There’s a little mound on a shell torn hill; 
There is mourning now in America; 

There are hearts that yearn and eyes that fill. 

But the boy was brave and was glad to go; 

So he went like a Knight of the ancient years; 
And he gave his life in sacrifice— 

Now we pay him the tribute of love and tears. 
January, 1918. 


WARREN WOOD 


W arren Wood is a native of Noble County, Ohio. 
His family lived near Lebanon until he was 
twelve years old, when they moved to Tyler 
County, West Virginia. 

Mr. Wood was educated in the district schools, a se¬ 
lect school in Sistersville, Scio College, where he was en¬ 
rolled for a brief period, and in various business colleges 
where he thoroughly equipped himself as a teacher of 
commercial branches. 

While engaged in teaching in the public schools, he 
conducted for a number of years a summer school at 
Middlebourne, which was the forerunner of the first 
county high school in West Virginia. After complet¬ 
ing his commercial education, he established the Ohio 
Valley Commercial Institute at Ravenswood, but was 
forced to give up his work because of ill health. 

He then turned his attention to writing and pub¬ 
lished “The Tragedy of the Deserted Isle” in which he 
told the story of Burr and Blennerhassett. This book 
received many complimentary press notices and was 
highly praised by well-known educators. It was placed 
on the list of books recommended for school libraries in 
West Virginia. 

Mr. Wood next published “When Virginia was 
Rent in Twain. ” This also won high praise. The Book 
News Monthly says: “Exceptionally vivid is the account 
of the Civil War given in this thrilling romance of Vir¬ 
ginia belles and beaux. The enlisting of the younger 
generation, the breaking of home and friendly ties, and 
the return after the close of the terrible conflict make 
the book one of wonderful interest. ’ ’ 

In 1918, Mr. Wood published a book of verse, en¬ 
titled “Voices from the Valley.” The following is one 
of the comments made concerning the author’s poems: 
“There is in them a subtle sense of communion with 


411 


412 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


nature’s quiet moods; there is a sympathetic under¬ 
standing of homely life—but life moved by a general 
current of emotion.” 


INDIAN SUMMER 

The misty haze of autumn days 
Rests on woodland and wold; 

There’s a tang in the air, 

Of these mornings so rare, 

When the trees are all crimson and gold. 

The mellow haze of autumn days 
Fills the valley and vale, 

And the corn shocks stand 
Like a warrior band, 

With tasseled helmets and coats of mail. 

The purple haze of autumn days 
Falls on river and rill, 

And their ripples shine 
Like ruby wine, 

When the sun sets over the hill. 

The golden haze of autumn days 
Brightens life’s labor and love, 

When on woodland and river, 

The Bountiful Giver, 

Sheds the glory of heaven above. 

VOICES FROM THE VALLEY 
I hear the voices of the past 
Amid the trees, 

Stirred by the breeze 
From far-off seas, 

Whispered of hands that nurtured, 
Souls that strived, 

And loves that last. 



WARREN WOOD 


413 


I hear the voices of to-day, 

From palace car, 

And from afar 

There comes the jar 

Of dull, discordant sounds, the moil 

Of mart and mill, 

Life’s strife alway. 

I hear the voices of afterwhile, 

As in a dream, 

And things that seem 
To catch a gleam 

From distant shores, declare there’ll be 
No carking care 
Where angels smile. 


VIRGINIA BIDDLE 


V irginia Biddle is a native of Parkersburg, West Vir¬ 
ginia, where she was born in 1895. She was edu¬ 
cated at the University of Cincinnati. During the 
World War, Miss Biddle was a member of the Y. M. C. 
A. Council. At present she has a position in the ad¬ 
vertising department of Stern Brothers in New York 
City. 

Miss Biddle’s verse shows decided literary ability, 
and gives promise of even greater achievement in the 
future. Her poem, “Silence,” was included in Braith- 
waite’s ‘‘Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1918.” It 
is one of the few poems of the World War that deserve 
to be classed as literature, and compares very favorably 
with “In Flanders Fields,” “The Spires of Oxford,” 
and other well-known war lyrics. Like Doctor Barbe’s 
“Stars of Gold,” “Silence” would lend distinction to 
any collection of World War verse. 

SILENCE 

The battle raged with hellish spite, 

And good men fell like rain that night. 

The morning stars came on a-pace 
And stared into each staring face. 

Tearing its way the wild shell screamed; 

—But quietly the Fallen dreamed. 

“It is the shining April rain 
Singing to us,” said the Slain. 

“The rustling poplars stir and sigh 
Like mothers crooning hush-a-bye. 

Happy candle lights appear 
In every cottage far and near. 

The supper things are laid away 

And round the hearth the children play.” 

The Red Cross Men stole on the field 
To find the gruesome harvest’s yield. 

414 


VIRGINIA BIDDLE 


415 


They bore the wounded back from hell: 

— 4 4 Somebody comes, ’ ’ said Those Who Fell. 
And each one thought within his breast, 

4 4 It is the one that I loved best. 

She kneels down softly by my side, 

And weeps to think that I have died. 

I wish that I could smooth her cheek, 

For she is bowed and sad and meek. 

But it is sweet to have her come 
Though I must lie here cold and dumb. 

She puts my head upon her breast 
And prays for my eternal rest.” 

After the sick September noon 
The evening brought the waning moon. 

Soft veils she wove around each head. 

— 44 It is an angel,” dreamed the Dead. 

4 4 We cannot think what way we died, 

But Christ we know was crucified. 

And for His sake we have release, 

God gives good soldiers death and peace. 

We shall march up before His tent 
All in a shining regiment. 

And He will smile on us and say, 

4 My soldiers have done well today,’ 

For Heaven has a simple grace 
Where folks are kind and commonplace. 

It is not proud and grand and far, 

But like our homes before the war.” 

Peace lay upon the shattered plain 
Where men had fallen like summer rain. 

The Touchstone, 1918. 

APRIL 

A.pril, my April, come over the plain, 

Sandaled with amethyst, starry with rain; 

Dower me with winds that are silver and blue, 

—Lilacs and shadows and fire of the dew. 

Bring me the thrush and the slim daffodil, 

April, my April, come over the hill! 


416 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Dance with me, laugh with me, shimmer and sing, 
I am thy dreamer and thou art the spring! 
Sunlight and moonlight are raiment for thee, 

—April, my April, come over the sea! 

Pan is thy piper and follows thee still 
Up out of Arcady over the hill. 

Starriest dancer of roses and rain, 

Bring me my far away sweetheart again; 

Laugh with her laughter immortal and sweet, 

Look from her lashes and dance with her feet. 
Crowned with her grace that is haunting me still, 

April, my April, come over the hill! 

AT DUSK 

Her little garden in the rain 
Is shedding silent tears again. 

The flat wet leaves will have their way 
And weep that she has gone away. 

—So strange a thing was never seen 
In any month of mauve and green, 

That such a Lady should depart 
And break a little garden’s heart. 

Now up the walk soft rains repeat 
The elfln music of her feet. 

With dreamful whim the blue larkspur 
Grows bluer with the eyes of her. 
Cream-petalled roses poise and sway 
Her most demure and dainty way. 
v- And fragrance as of leaf-brown hair 
Lingers along the listening air. 

Her little garden in the rain 
Is shedding silent tears again. 

Alas, dear Lady, to depart 
And break a little garden’s heart! 

—But what if when the wind vrere still, 

She wandered home across the hill.... 

(Across all hills, all valleys, too,) 

A long, long way through rose and dew. 


GARNETT LAIDLAW ESKEW 


G arnett Laidlaw Eskew was born in 1893. His 
father, John Garnett Eskew, who has been en¬ 
gaged in business in Charleston, West Virginia, 
for a number of years, is a member of a prominent Vir¬ 
ginia family. His mother was a Laidlaw, and her fam¬ 
ily has been closely identified with the history and 
growth of the country for almost a century. 

Mr. Eskew was graduated from the Charleston 
High School in 1912, and later continued his education 
at New York University. 

Though Mr. Eskew began to contribute poems and 
articles to local papers and other publications when a 
mere boy, he did not receive pay for any of his work 
until 1918, when he sold a poem to The New York Her¬ 
ald . Since 1918, Mr. Eskew has resided in New York 
City, where he has been engaged in magazine editing 
and in general literary work. He has been a contributor 
to the Munsey publications, Travel, Life, The New York 
Times, The New York Evening Post, Everybody’s Maga¬ 
zine, The Designer, The Memphis Commercial Appeal, 
The New Orleans Times-Picayune, The Richmond Times- 
Despatcli, The Charleston Gazette, The New York Cen¬ 
tral Magazine, and a number of other publications. His 
work includes poems, light verse, special articles, book 
reviews, and theatre criticisms. He was formerly asso¬ 
ciate editor of The New York Central Times. At pres¬ 
ent, he is on the Sunday staff of The Charleston Gazette , 
He is a member of the Poetry Society of America, which 
holds monthly meetings at the National Arts Club in 
New York. Mr. Eskew’s work, his verse particularly, 
is regarded as clever, and full of promise of even greater 
achievement. It is hoped that, in the near future, he 
may decide to collect his poems, and publish them in 
book form. 


417 


418 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


THE DAUGHTER OF THE STARS 

The Mountains in Virginia 
Are blue and smooth and high, 

And down the rolling valley 
The Shenandoah goes by— 

The slender daughter of the stars 
With love light in her eye. 

As I rode down from Markham 
About the dusk of day, 

A slant sun dropped to westward, 

And very far away 

Old Stony Man stood sharp and clear 

Above remote Luray. 

But swinging into eddies 
And rapids clear and strong, 

The little river murmured 
In her joyous dash along,— 

The sparkling daughter of the stars 
With laughter in her song. 

The gray old homes were silent 
And dignified among 
The mighty towering beech trees 
And ancient elms, which sprung 
To dizzy height and crusted age 
When my grandsire was young. 

And yet that little river 
Skipped on to find the sea, 

All unimpressed and buoyant 
And lithe and young and free,— 

The vibrant daughter of the stars 
Seems always young to me. 

The New York Evening Post. 


GARNETT LAIDLAW ESKEW 


419 


MOONLIGHT ON KANAWHA 
When it’s starlight on Kanawha 
After summer days are done, 

And the moon drifts in the water 
Like a freighted galleon— 

When the bridge lights glance and glimmer 
Par away against the town, 

Shining pathways on the water 
Then my dreams go marching down; 

While the river swirls and eddies 
By the side of our canoe 
With a lilting liquid lapping 
That is like the voice of you— 

Then I turn to you and listen 
As you thrum your soft guitar, 

And your voice rings, Sole mio! 

On the night winds stealing far. 

There are hills beside Kanawha, 

There are deep hills mirrored too 
In the river; from the hollows 
Little winds blow out; but you— 

You are singing in the darkness 

Sole mio , and I see 

Only great eyes burning deeply, 

And I think they burn for me. 

And the silent water eddies 
Into little flecks of foam; 

And it’s moonlight on Kanawha 
In the shadowed hills of home. 

The New York Evening Post. 

SHIPS IN HAMPTON ROADS 

Beyond the guns of gray Monroe, 

Beyond the battered dark sea-wall, 

How many dream ships pass and go 
To what unnoted ports of call. 


420 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Fine craft are they 
That all the day 

Go down the still slow swinging bay. 

Low-lying freighters, deep and dark, 

Go plodding up the soundless tide; 

And here and there a graceful barque, 

Her wan sails sweeping high and wide, 

Skims gallantly 
Against the sea, 

A ship of splendid dreams to me. 

And toiling coasters ply and pass,- 

The hodden, heaving hulks of trade; 

A schooner—some huge galleass 
That leaves behind no darkening shade 
Or blackening train— 

Sweeps to the main 

Laden—Who knows?—with gold of Spain! 

The tart salt sea winds sing, and oh 

The channel swells are white with foam.... 

Down Hampton Roads the still ships go, 

But I must stav and dream' at home. 

The New York Evening Post. 



JOSEPH HERBERT BEAN 


J oseph Herbert Bean was born on March 4, 1871, in 
Saint Mary’s County, Maryland. He is of English 
and Scotch-Irish ancestry. His father’s ancestors 
crossed the Atlantic with Lord Baltimore’s company and 
settled at Saint Mary’s, Maryland. His mother, Willie. 
Marianna Carper, was descended from the Cavaliers 
who settled in Virginia in the seventeenth century. 

Mr. Bean’s boyhood days were largely spent in the 
home of his parents in Botetourt County. He was edu¬ 
cated in public and private preparatory schools, and at 
the Virginia Polytechnic Institute. After a business 
career of some years, Mr. Bean entered the ministry, 
and has for more than twenty years been a minister of 
the Methodist Episcopal Church South. He is at present 
pastor of a church at Hinton, West Virginia. 

Mr. Bean has for years contributed verse to a num¬ 
ber of periodicals. He recently published a book of 
verse entitled “A Pilgrim Harp,” of which a review 
says: ‘ ‘ This is a book of short, inspiring poems in which 

the author, in unusually good style, gives expression to 
lofty thoughts and incites to noble impulses.” 

“SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE” 

“Somewhere in France,” I know not where, 

A wooden cross still bravely stands 
Above a boy left “over there,” 

Paid on our debt to other lands, 

A hostage held by death’s demands. 

“Somewhere in France” lies sacred dust 

Neath summer’s sun and winter’s snow; 

While broken swords lie low in rust, 

And blood-red poppies bloom and blow 
As seasons come and seasons go. 

421 


422 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

“Somewhere in France;” sleep on, My Lad! 
Our land shall not forget you now; 

Some hearth how lone! some heart how sad! 
But bays eternal bless your brow— 

You gave your life, but kept our vow. 

MORNING 

Out through the opening gates of day 
Gray messengers of morn are sent; 

Over the eastern hills they stray 

In paths the playful starlight went. 

Up from the drowsy dales of dawn 

The liquid notes of the lark arise; 

Up from the meadow’s mirth, and on 

And on to the listening light-glad skies. 

Over the echoing vales of morn, 

The jewelled dewdrops gleaming there, 

Resounds the vibrant huntsman’s horn; 

And the cry of hounds thrills through the air. 

Forth to the field the plowman goes, 

The minstrelsies of morning ring; 

Echoes borne from the axeman’s blows— 

And cattle low and the meadows sing. 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 

hitever may be the difference of opinion among 
critics as to the value of the literary work of 
West Virginians, they are agreed upon one 
point—that Melville Davisson Post is the world’s great¬ 
est writer of detective and mystery stories, with the ex¬ 
ception of Edgar Allen Poe. Mr. Post says that inspi¬ 
ration is “mostly a pious fraud,” hut those who read his 

masterly stories believe 
that inspiration is one of 
the most real things in 
Hie world and that “hard 
work” and the follow¬ 
ing of “certain well-de¬ 
fined structural rules” 
frill far short of account¬ 
ing for his marvelous suc¬ 
cess as a writer of the 
short story. 

Mr. Post is the son 
of Ira C. and Florence 
May (Davisson) Post of 
Harrison County and 
Avas born April 19, 1871, 
within a mile of his pres¬ 
ent home. After com¬ 
pleting his preparatory 
training in the rural schools of his home county, he 
entered West Virginia University, Avhere he received an 
A.B. degree in 1891 and an LL.B. degree in 1892. He 
began the practice of law in Wheeling and later went to 
Grafton Avhere he entered into partnership with Hon. 
John T. McGraw. While practicing his profession, he 
took an active part in Democratic politics. In 1892, he 
Avas presidential elector and secretary of the Electoral 
College. He served as chairman of the Democratic Con- 




423 




424 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


gressional Committee of West Virginia in 1898. He has 
always been interested in educational affairs and was for 
several years a member of the Board of Regents of the 
Normal Schools. 

Mr. Post, in 1896, published the Randolph Mason 
stories which were so enthusiastically received that he 
decided to abandon what promised to be a legal career 
of unusual distinction to enter the field of literature. 
Previous writers of detective stories had dealt with the 
efforts of a criminal to “outwit the detective or ferreting 
power of the state." Mr. Post had the criminal “de¬ 
feat the punishing power of the state” and was severely 
criticized by some for showing criminals how to “beat 
the law." In answer to this criticism, the author said: 
“Criminals knew those things already. They had been 
breaking the laws and defeating the punishing powers 
of the state all along, and nobody thought anything 
about it until my book came out.” It was not for mere 
entertainment, but for the purpose of showing the weak¬ 
ness of the law that these stories were written that 
changes in the law might be brought about by public 
sentiment. 

It was the originality of Mr. Post’s first stories 
rather than their literary merit that attracted the at¬ 
tention of readers and critics. Today Mr. Post is a mas¬ 
ter of the technique of the short story. It is his opinion, 
however, that the supreme essential in the writing of a 
short story is to have a story to tell. Doctor Blanche Colton 
M illiams, in her book, “Our Short Story Writers,” says 
of Mr. Posts work: “His art of story-telling has been 
strengthened by his logical training and—what does not 
always follow from mere recognition of critical canons— 
that application of scientific standards to his own fiction. 
He learned before he was thirty that the mastery of an 
art depends only upon the comprehension of its basic 
laws: that the short story, like any other work of art is 
only written by painstaking labor and according to cer¬ 
tain structural rules. He is convinced that the laws 
that apply to mechanics and architecture are no more 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 


425 


certain or established than those that apply to the con¬ 
struction of a short story. In his enthusiasm for econ¬ 
omy, he would brand into the hand of everybody the 
rule of Walter Pater: ‘All art does but consist in the 
removal of surplusage.’ ” 

Indeed it may be said that the later work of Mr. 
Post in the short story shows not only quite as much orig¬ 
inality as his first stories but such perfection of plot and 
style that each time one of his books appears the reader 
wonders whether he has v not reached the height of his 
literary achievement. 

The following criticism taken from a review of 
“Uncle Abner” published in The New York Sun is ap¬ 
plicable also to the other work of the author: “A col¬ 
lection of short stories by Melville Davisson Post means 
a notable book. Mr. Post is doing work of the utmost 
importance and distinction, work that is intrinsically 
American and wholly fine. ‘The Gold Bug,’ and ‘The 
Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ are no better: all the Sher¬ 
lock Holmes stories are inferior.Mr. Post knows 

how tremendously effective speech and action can be 
made. So speech and action he provides, and very little 
else. It is consummate art. It has the cleverest mov¬ 
ing picture scenario backed to the wall.” 

What is regarded by many as Mr. Post’s greatest 
contribution to literature is his wonderful allegorical 
story of the life of Christ, ‘ ‘ The Mountain School Teach¬ 
er, ” which won for him the distinction of being nomi¬ 
nated for the Noble prize in 1922. For this story, which 
was published in The Pictorial Review in December, 
1921, and in January, 1922, the author received the 
highest price ever paid by an American magazine for a 
short story. He enlarged the story which appeared in 
book form in August, 1923. Had Mr. Post never written 
any other fiction than ‘ ‘ The Mountain School Teacher, ’ ’ 
he would well deserve to be considered a great author. 

Though Mr. Post has a world-wide reputation as a 
writer, he does not have the distinction of possessing a 
halo of romance, mystery, and eccentricity, as do many 



426 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

other literary geniuses. He is not responsible, however, 
for his refreshing and original commonplaceness. Fate 
made him a member of a wealthy family, a lawyer with a 
lucrative practice and then a successful author from the 
beginning of his literary career and gave him one of the 
greatest of all blessings, a well-balanced mind. There¬ 
fore, there are no interesting and touching stories of his 
early struggles with poverty and with hard-hearted 
editors and publishers who refused to accept his work, 
and there are no exhilarating accounts of any wild or 
even unusual behavior on the part of the author while 
composing his stories. Some imaginative person once 
succeeded in creating a mild sensation by reporting that 
‘ k it was nothing to walk in on Melville Davisson Post and 
find him seated at his desk, writing, with the floor around 
littered with pages of his story that he had discarded 
upon their being found unsatisfactory.” Even this bit 
of gossip has been spoiled by the fact that Mr. Post does 
not write his stories at all but carries them in his brain 
until even the most minute details are completed and 
then dictates them. He usually completes the dictation 
of a story in from two to three hours. He does prac¬ 
tically all his literary work in the fall and winter during 
which time he works three hours a day, always early in 
the morning. 

Mr. Post receives letters from amateur writers from 
all over the world asking for advice and suggestions and 
he always finds time to reply to these letters. There is 
hardly a mail that does not bring him one or more 
manuscripts from would-be authors who wish to know 
why their work has been rejected by magazine editors. 
It is said that to at least ninety per cent of these per¬ 
sons, Mr. Post franklv writes “You have no story to 
tell. ’ ’ 

Although he has spent the greater part of the past 
twenty years in eastern cities and in Europe, Mr. Posf 
now spends several months each year at his attractive 
home, The Chalet, which is thus described in The Clarks¬ 
burg Telegram: “It is unfortunate for motorists that 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 


427 


a view of Mr. Post’s home can not be had from the road. 
Save for a scant view of the sharp-angled roof above the 
fringe of encircling oaks and maples, the house and well- 
kept grounds are screened from the view of the road by 
shade trees. If it could be seen from the road, the house 
would doubtless be one of the show places of the county. 
Its architecture is quaint, beautiful, and attractive. 
The house itself is of the Swiss type and is built from 
stone taken from the ground near by. A long winding 
stone and gravel driveway leads through shaded lanes 
from the entrance at the foot of the hill to the house. 
From the house, one gets a wonderful panoramic view of 
the blue smoky hills and grazing lands in the distance, 
with a road winding its tortuous and serpentine way 
through the vales over the rocky eminences.’’ It is no 
wonder Mr. Post loves his beautiful home. The wonder 
is that he ever makes up his mind to leave a scene of such 
enchanting loveliness for even the most fascinating of 
trips abroad. 


THE DOOMDORF MYSTERY 

The pioneer was not the only man in the great 
mountains behind Virginia. Strange aliens drifted in 
after the Colonial wars. All foreign armies are sprinkled 
with a cockle of adventurers that take root and remain. 
They were with Braddock and La Salle, and they rode 
north out of Mexico after her many empires went to 
pieces. 

I think Doomdorf crossed the seas with Iturbidg 
when that ill-starred adventurer returned to be shot 
against a wall; but there was no Southern blool in him. 
He came from some European race remote and barbaric. 


From “Uncle Abner, Master of Mysteries,” copy¬ 
right 1920 by D. Appleton and Sons. By permission of 
the publishers. 




428 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


The evidences were all about him. He was a huge 
ligure of a man, with a black spade beard, broad, thick 
hands, and square, fiat fingers. 

He had found a wedge of land between the Crown’s 
grant to Daniel Davisson and a Washington survey. It 
was an uncovered triangle not w r orth the running of the 
lines; and so, no doubt, was left out,a sheer rock stand¬ 
ing up out of the river for a base, and a peak of the 
mountain rising northward behind it for an apex. 

Doomdorf squatted on the rock. He must have 
brought a belt of gold pieces when he took to his horse, 
for he hired old Robert Steuart’s slaves and built a stone 
house on the rock, and he brought the furnishings over¬ 
land from a frigate in the Chesapeake; and then in the 
handfuls of earth, wherever a root would hold, he planted 
the mountain behind his house with peach trees. The 
gold gave out; but the devil is fertile in resources. 
Doomdorf built a log still and turned the first fruits of 
the garden into a hell-brew. The idle and the vicious 
came with their stone jugs, and violence and riot flowed 
out. 

The government of Virginia was remote and its arm 
short and feeble; but the men who held the lands west 
of the mountains against the savages under grants from 
George, and after that held them against George himself, 
were efficient and expeditious. They had long patience, 
but when that failed they went up from their fields and 
drove the thing before them out of the land, like a scourge 
of God. 

There came a day, then, when my Uncle Abner and 
Squire Eandolph rode through the gap of the mountains 
to have the thing out with Doomdorf. The work of this 
brew, which had the odors of Eden and the impulses of 
the devil in it, could be borne no longer. The drunken 
negroes had shot old Duncan’s cattle and burned his 
haystacks, and the land was on its feet. 

They rode alone, but they were worth an army of 
little men. Randolph was vain and pompous and given 
over to extravagance of words, but he was a gentleman 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 


429 


beneath it, and fear was an alien and a stranger to him. 
And Abner was the right hand of the land. 

It was a day in early summer and the sun lay hot. 
They crossed through the broken spine of the mountains 
and trailed along the river in the shade of the great 
chestnut trees. The road was only a path and the horses 
went one before the other. It left the river when the 
rock began to rise and, making a detour through the 
grove of peach trees, reached the house on the mountain 
side. Randolph and Abner got down, unsaddled their 
horses and turned them out to graze, for their business 
with Doomdorf would not be over in an hour. Then 
they took a steep path that brought them out on the 
mountain side of the house. 

A man sat on a big red-roan horse in the paved 
court before the door. He was a gaunt old man. He sat 
bare-headed, the palms of his hands resting on the pom¬ 
mel of his saddle, his chin sunk in his black stock, his face 
in retrospection, the wind moving gently his great shock 
of voluminous white hair. Under him the huge red 
horse stood with his legs spread out like a horse of stone. 

There was no sound. The door to the house was 
closed; insects moved in the sun; a shadow crept out 
from the motionless figure, and swarms of yellow butter¬ 
flies maneuvered like an army. 

Abner and Randolph stopped. They knew the 
tragic figure—a circuit rider of the hills who preached 
the invective of Isaiah as though he were the mouthpiece 
of a militant and avenging overlord; as though the 
government of Virginia were the awful theocracy of the 
Book of Kings. The horse was dripping with sweat and 
the man bore the dust and the evidences of a journey 
on him. 

“Bronson,” said Abner, “where is Doomdorf?” 

The old man lifted his head and looked down at 
Abner over the pommel of the saddle. 

“ ‘Surely,’ ” he said, “ ‘lie covereth his feet in his 
summer chamber.’ ” 

Abner went over and knocked on the closed door, 


430 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

and presently the white, frightened face of a woman 
looked out at him. She was a little, faded woman, with 
fair hair, a broad foreign face, but with the delicate evi¬ 
dences of gentle blood. 

Abner repeated his question. 

“Where is Doomdorf?” 

“Oh, sir,” she answered with a queer lisping ac¬ 
cent, “he went to lie down in his south room after his 
midday meal, as his custom is; and I went to the orchard 
to gather any fruit that might be ripened. ’ 7 

She hesitated and her voice lisped into a whisper: 
“He is not come out and I cannot wake him.” 

The two men followed her through the hall and up 
the stairway to the door. 

“It is always bolted,” she said, “when he goes to 
lie down. ’ ’ And she knocked feebly with the tips of her 
fingers. 

There was no answer and Randolph rattled the door¬ 
knob. 

“'Come out, Doomdorf!” he called in his big, bel¬ 
lowing voice. 

There was only silence and the echoes of the words 
among the rafters. Then Randolph set his shoulder to 
the door and burst it open. 

They went in. The room was flooded with sun 
from the tall south windows. Doomdorf lay on a couch 
in a little offset of the room, a great scarlet patch on his 
bosom and a pool of scarlet on the floor. 

The woman stood for a moment staring; then she 
cried out: 

‘ ‘ At last I have killed him! ’ ’ And she ran like a 
frightened hare. 

The two men closed closed the door and went over to 
the couch. Doomdorf had been shot to death. There 
was a great ragged hole in his waistcoat. They began to 
look about for the weapon with which the deed had been 
accomplished, and in a moment found it—a fowling piece 
lying in two dogwood forks against the wall. The 
gun had just been fired; there was a freshly exploded 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 


431 


paper cap under the hammer. 

There was little else in the room—a loom-woven rag 
carpet on the floor; wooden shutters flung back from the 
windows; a great oak table, and on it a big, round, glass 
water bottle, filled to its glass stopper with raw liquor 
from the still. The stuff was limpid and clear as spring 
water; and, but for its pungent odor, one would have 
taken it for God’s brew instead of Doomdorf’s. The sun 
lay on it and against the wall where hung the weapon 
that had ejected the dead man out of life. 

“Abner,” said Randolph, “this is murder! The 
woman took that gun down from the wall and shot 
Doomdorf while he slept.” 

Abner was standing by the table, his fingers round 
his chin. 

“Randolph,” he replied, “what brought Bronson 
here ?’’ 

“The same outrages that brought us,” said Ran¬ 
dolph. “The mad old circuit rider has been preaching 
a crusade against Doomdorf far and wide in the hills.” 

Abner answered, without taking his fingers from 
about his chin: 

“You think this woman killed Doomdorf? Well, 
let us go and ask Bronson who killed him.” 

They closed the door, leaving the dead man on his 
couch, and went down into the court. 

The old circuit rider had put away his horse and got 
an ax. He had taken off his coat and pushed his shirt¬ 
sleeves up over his long elbows. 

He was on his way to the still to destroy the barrels 
of liquor. He stopped when the two men came out, and 
Abner called to him. 

“Bronson,” he said, “who killed Doomdorf?” 

11 1 killed him, ’ ’ replied the old man, and went on to¬ 
ward the still. 

Randolph swore under his breath. “By the Al¬ 
mighty, * ’ he said, ‘ ‘ everybody couldn’t kill him! ’ ’ 

’ “Who can tell how many had a hand in it?” re¬ 
plied Abner. 


432 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


“Two have confessed!” cried Randolph. “Was 
there perhaps a third ? Did you kill him, Abner ? And 
I too ? Man, the thing is impossible !” 

“The impossible,” replied Abner, “looks here like 
the truth. Come with me, Randolph, and I will show you 
a thing more impossible than this.” 

They returned through the house and up the stairs 
to the room. Abner closed the door behind them. 

“Look at this bolt,” he said; “it is on the inside 
and not connected with the lock. How did the one w r ho 
killed Doomdorf get into this room, since the door was 
bolted ?’ ’ 

“Through the windows,” replied Randolph. 

There were but two windows, facing the south, 
through which the sun entered. Abner led Randolph 
to them. 

* ‘ Look! ” he said. ‘ ‘ The Avail of the house is plumb 
with the sheer face of the rock. It is a hundred feet to 
the river and the rock is as smooth as a sheet of glass. 
But that is not all. Look at these window frames; they 
are cemented into their casement with dust and they 
are bound along their edges with cobwebs. These w r in- 
doAvs have not been opened. Hoav did the assassin 
enter ? ’ ’ 

“The ansAver is e\ T ident,” said Randolph: “The 
one Avho killed Doomdorf hid in the room until he Avas 
asleep; then he shot him and Avent out. ’ ’ 

“The explanation is excellent but for one thing,” 
replied Abner: “Hoav did the assassin bolt the door be¬ 
hind him on the inside of this room after he had gone 
out ?’ ’ 

Randolph flung out his arms with a hopeless gesture. 

“AVho knoAA's?” he cried. “Maybe Doomdorf kill¬ 
ed himself. ’ ’ 

Abner laughed. 

“And after firing a handful of shot into his heart 
he got up and put the gun back carefully into the forks 
against the wall! ’ ’ 

“Well,” cried Randolph, “there is one open road 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 


433 


out of this mystery. Bronson and this woman say they 
killed Doomdorf, and if they killed him they surely 
know how they did it. Let us go down and ask them.” 

‘ ‘ In the law court, ’’ replied Abner, ‘ ‘ that procedure 
would be considered sound sense; but we are in God’s 
court and things are managed there in a somewhat 
stranger way. Before we go let us find out, if we can, 
at what hour it was that Doomdorf died.” 

He went over and took a big silver watch out of the 
dead man’s pocket. - It was broken by a shot and the 
hands lay at one hour after noon. He stood for a 
moment fingering his chin. 

“At one o’clock,” he said. “Bronson, I think, was 
on the road to this place, and the woman was on the 
mountain among the peach trees.” 

Randolph threw back his shoulders. 

“Why waste time in a speculation about it, Abner?” 
he said. “We know who did this thing. Let us go and 
get the story of it out of their own mouths. Doomdorf 
died by the hands of either Bronson or this woman.” 

‘ ‘ I could better believe it, ’ ’ replied Abner, ‘ ‘ but for 
the running of a certain awful law.” 

“What law?” said Randolph. “Is it a statute of 
Virginia?” 

“It is a statute,” replied Abner, “of an authority 
somewhat higher. Mark the language of it: ‘He that 
killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.’ ” 

He came over and took Randolph by the arm. 

“Must! Randolph, did you mark particularly the 
word ‘must’? It is a mandatory law. There is no 
room in it for the vicissitudes of chance or fortune. 
There is no way round that word. Thus, we reap what 
we sow and nothing else; thus, we receive wdiat we give 
and nothing else. It is the weapon in our own hands 
that finally destroys us. You are looking at it now.” 
And he turned him about so that the table and the weap¬ 
on and the dead man were before him. “ ‘He that 
killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword/ 
And now,” he said, “let us go and try the method of the 


434 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

law courts. Your faith is in the wisdom of their ways.” 

They found the old circuit rider at work in the still, 
staving in Doomdorf’s liquor casks, splitting the oak 
heads with his ax. 

* ‘ Bronson, ’ ’ said Randolph, ‘ ‘ how did you kill Doom- 
dor f?” 

The old man stopped and stood leaning on his ax. 

“I killed him,” replied the old man, “as Elijah kill¬ 
ed the captains of Ahaziah and their fifties. But not by 
the hand of any man did I pray the Lord God to destroy 
Doomdorf, but with fire from heaven to destroy him.” 

fie stood up and extended his arms. 

“His hands were full of blood,” he said. “With 
his abomination from these groves of Baal he stirred up 
the people to contention, to strife and murder. The 
widow and the orphan cried to heaven against him. ‘I 
will surely hear their cry,’ is the promise written in the 
Book. The land was weary of him; and I prayed the 
Lord God to destroy him with fire from heaven, as he de¬ 
stroyed the Princes of Gomorrah in their palaces!” 

Randolph made a gesture as of one who dismisses 
the impossible, but Abner's face took on a deep, strange 
look. 

“With fire from heaven!” he repeated slowly to 
himself. Then he asked a question. “A little while 
ago,” he said, “when we came, I asked you where Doom¬ 
dorf was, and you answered me in the language of the 
third chapter of the Book of Judges. Why did you an¬ 
swer me like that, Bronson?—‘Surely he covereth his 
feet in his summer chamber.’ ” 

“The woman told me that he had not come down 
from the room where he had gone up to sleep,” replied 
the old man, ‘ ‘ and that the door was locked. And then 
I knew that he was dead in his summer chamber like 
Eglon, King of Moab.” 

He extended his arm toward the south. 

“I came here from the Great Valley,” he said, “to 
cut down these groves of Baal and to empty out this 
abomination; but I did not know that the Lord had 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 


435 


heard my prayer and visited His wrath on Doomdorf 
until I was come up into these mountains to his door. 
When the woman spoke I knew it.” And he went away 
to his horse, leaving the ax among the ruined barrels. 

Randolph interrupted. 

Come, Abner, ’ ’ he said; ‘ ‘ this is wasted time. 
Bronson did not kill Doomdorf.” 

Abner answered slowly in his deep, level voice: 

“Do you realize, Randolph, how Doomdorf died?” 

“Not by fire from heaven, at any rate,” said Ran¬ 
dolph. 

“Randolph,” replied Abner, “are you sure?” 

“Abner,” cried Randolph, “you are pleased to jest, 
but I am in deadly earnest. A crime has been done here 
against the state. I am an officer of justice and I pro¬ 
pose to discover the assassin if I can. ” 

He walked away toward the house and Abner fol¬ 
lowed, his hands behind him and his great shoulders 
thrown loosely forward, with a grim smile about his 
mouth. 

“It is no use to talk with the mad old preacher,” 
Randolph went on. “Let him empty out the liquor and 
ride away. I won’t issue a warrant against him. Pray¬ 
er may be a handy implement to do a murder with, 
Abner, but it is not a deadly weapon under the statutes 
of Virginia. Doomdorf was dead when old Bronson 
got here with his Scriptural jargon. This woman killed 
Doomdorf. I shall put her to an inquisition.” 

“As you like,” replied Abner. “Your faith re¬ 
mains in the methods of the law courts.” 

“Do you know of any better methods?” said Ran¬ 
dolph. 

“Perhaps,” replied Abner, “when you have finish¬ 
ed.” 

Night had entered the valley. The two men went 
into the house and set about preparing the corpse for 
burial. They got candles, and made a coffin, and put 
Doomdorf in it, and straightened out his limbs, and 
folded his arms across his shot-out heart. Then they set 


436 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

the coffin on benches in the hall. 

They kindled a fire in the dining room and sat down 
before it, with the door open and the red fire-light 
shining through on the dead man’s narrow, everlasting 
house. The woman had put some cold meat, a golden 
cheese and a loaf on the table. They did not see her, 
but they heard her moving about the house; and finally, 
on the gravel court outside, her step and the whinny of 
a horse. Then she came in, dressed as for a journey. 
Randolph sprang up. 

“Where are you going?” he said. 

‘ ‘ To the sea and a ship, ’ ’ replied the woman. Then 
she indicated the hall with a gesture. “He is dead and 
I am free.” 

There was a sudden illumination in her face. Ran¬ 
dolph took a step toward her. His voice was big and 
liRrsli 

“Who killed Doomdorf?” he cried. 

‘ ‘ I killed him, ’ ’ replied the woman. ‘ ‘ It was fair! * * 

“Fair!” echoed the justice. “What do you mean 
by that?” 

The woman shrugged her shoulders and put out her 
hands with a foreign gesture. 

“I remember an old, old man sitting against a 
sunny wall, and a little girl, and one who came and 
talked a long time with the old man, while the little girl 
plucked yellow flowers out of the grass and put them into 
her hair. Then finally the stranger gave the old ntan a 
gold chain and took the little girl away.” She flung 
out her hands. “Oh, it was fair to kill him!” She 
looked up with a cpieer, pathetic smile. 

“The old man will be gone by now,” she said; “but 
I shall perhaps find the wall there, with the sun on it, 
and the yellow flowers in the grass. And now, may I 
go?” 

It is a law of the story-teller’s art that he does not 
tell a story. It is the listener who tells it. The story¬ 
teller does but provide him with the stimuli. 

Randolph got up and walked about the floor. He 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 


437 


was a justice of the peace in a day when that office was 
filled only by the landed gentry, after the English fash¬ 
ion; and the obligations of the law were strong on him. 
If he should take liberties with the letter of it, how could 
the weak and the evil be made to hold it in respect? 
Here was this woman before him, a confessed assassin. 
Could he let her go? 

Abner sat unmoving by the hearth, his elbow on the 
arm of his chair, his palm propping up his jaw, his face 
clouded in deep lines.' Randolph was consumed with 
vanity and the weakness of ostentation, but he shoul¬ 
dered his duties for himself. Presently he stopped and 
looked at the woman, wan, faded like some prisoner of 
legend escaped out of fabled dungeons into the sun. 

The firelight flickered past her to the box on the 1 
benches in the hall, and the vast, inscrutable justice of 
heaven entered and overcame him. 

“Yes,” he said. “Go! There is no jury in Vir¬ 
ginia that would hold a woman for shooting a beast like 
that.” And he thrust out his arm, with the fingers ex¬ 
tended toward the dead man. 

The woman made a little awkward curtsy. 

4 4 1 thank you, sir. ’ ’ Then she hesitated and lisped, 
“But I have not shoot him.” 

“Not shoot him!” cried Randolph. 44 Why, the 

man’s heart is riddled!” 

44 Yes, sir,” she said simply, like a child. “I kill 
him, but have not shoot him.” 

Randolph took two long strides toward the woman. 

44 Not shoot him!” he repeated. 44 How then, in the 
name of heaven, did you kill Doomdorf?” And his big 
voice filled the empty places of the room. 

“I will show you, sir,” she said. 

She turned and went away into the house. Presently 
she returned with something folded up in a linen towel. 
She put it on the table between the loaf of bread and 
the yellow cheese. 

Randolph stood over the table, and the woman’s 
deft fingers undid the towel from round its deadly con- 


438 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

tents; and presently the thing lay there uncovered. 

It was a little crude model of a human figure done 
in wax with a needle thrust through the bosom. 

Randolph stood up with a great intake of the breath. 

“Magic! By the eternal!” 

“Yes, sir,” the woman explained, in her voice and 
manner of a child. “I have try to kill him many times 
—oh, very many times!—with witch words which I have 
remember; but always they fail. Then, at last, I make 
him in wax, and I put a needle through his heart; and 
1 kill him very quickly.” 

It "was as clear as daylight, even to Randolph, that 
the woman was innocent. Her little harmless magic was 
the pathetic effort of a child to kill a dragon. He hes¬ 
itated a moment before he spoke, and then he decided 
like the gentleman he was. If it helped the child to be¬ 
lieve that her enchanted straw had slain the monster— 
well, he would let her believe it. 

“And now, sir, may I go?” 

Randolph looked at the woman in a sort of wonder. 

“Are you not afraid,” he said, “of the night and 
the mountains, and the long road?” 

“Oh no, sir,” she replied simply. “The good God 
will be everywhere now.” 

It was an awful commentary on the dead man— 
that this strange half-child believed that all the evil in 
the world had gone out with him; that now that he was 
dead, the sunlight of heaven would fill every nook and 
corner. 

It was not a faith that either of the two men wished 
to shatter, and they let her go. It would be daylight 
presently and the road through the mountains to the 
Chesapeake was open. 

Randolph came back to the fireside after he had 
helped her into the saddle, and sat down. He tapped 
on the hearth for some time idly with the iron poker; 
and then finally he spoke. 

“This is the strangest thing that ever happened,” 
he said. “Here’s a mad old preacher who thinks that 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 


439 


he killed Doomdorf with fire from Heaven, like Elijah 
the Tishbite; and here is a simple child of a woman who 
thinks she killed him with a piece of magic of the Middle 
Ages—each as innocent of his death as I am. And yet, 
by the eternal, the beast is dead!” 

He drummed on the hearth with the poker, lifting 
it up and letting it drop through the hollow of his fin¬ 
gers. 

“Somebody shot Doomdorf. But who? And how 
did he get into and out of that shut-up room? The 
assassin that killed Doomdorf must have gotten into the 
room to kill him. Now, how did he get in?” He spoke 
as to himself; but my uncle sitting across the hearth 
replied: 

“Through the window.” 

‘ ‘ Through the window! ’ ’ echoed Randolph. ‘ ‘ Why, 
man, you yourself showed me that the window had not 
been opened, and the precipice below it a fly could 
hardly climb. Do you tell me now that the window was 
opened?” 

“No,” said Abner, “it was never opened.” 

Randolph got on his feet. 

“Abner,” he cried, “are you saying that the one 
who killed Doomdorf climbed the sheer wall and got in 
through a closed window, without disturbing the dust 
or the cobwebs on the window frame?” 

My uncle looked Randolph in the face. 

“The mlurderer of Doomdorf did even more,” he 
said. ‘ ‘ That assassin not only climbed the, face of that 
precipice and got in through the closed window, but he 
shot Doomdorf to death and got out again through the 
closed window without leaving a single track or trace be¬ 
hind, and without disturbing a grain of dust or a thread 
of a cobweb.” 

Randolph swore a great oath. 

“The thing is impossible!” he cried. “Men are 
not killed today in Virginia by black art or a curse of 
God.” 

“By black art, no,” replied Abner; “but by the 


440 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

curse of God, yes. I think they are.” 

Randolph drove his clenched right hand into the 
palm of his left. 

‘ * By the eternal! ” he cried. ‘ ‘ I would like to see 
the assassin who could do a murder like this, whether he 
he an imp from the pit or an angel out of Heaven.” 

“Very well,” replied Abner, undisturbed. “When 
he comes back tomorrow I will show you the assassin who 
killed Doomdorf. ’ ’ 

When day broke they dug a grave and buried the 
dead man against the mountain among his peach trees. 
It was noon when that work was ended. Abner threw 
down his spade and looked up at the sun. 

“Randolph,” he said, “let us go and lay an ambush 
for this assassin. He is on the way here.” 

And it was a strange ambush that he laid. When 
they were come again into the chamber where Doomdorf 
died lie bolted the door; then he loaded the fowling piece 
and put it carefully back on its rack against the wall. 
After that he did another curious thing: He took the 
blood-stained coat, which they had stripped off the dead 
man when they had prepared his body for the earth, 
put a pillow in it and laid it on the couch precisely where 
Doomdorf had slept. And while he did these things 
Randolph stood in wonder and Abner talked: 

“Look you, Randolph. . . .We will trick the 
murderer. . . .We will catch him in the act.” 

Then he went over and took the puzzled justice by 
the arm. 

“Watch!” he said. “The assassin is coming along 
the wall!” 

But Randolph heard nothing, saw nothing. Only 
the sun entered. Abner’s hand tightened on his arm. 

“It is here ! Look!’’ And he pointed to the wall. 

Randolph, following the extended finger, saw a tiny 
brilliant disk of light moving slowly up the wall toward 
the lock of the fowling piece. Abner’s hand became a 
vise and his voice rang as over metal. 

“ ‘He that killeth with the sword must be killed 


MELVILLE DAVISSON POST 


441 


with the sword.’ It is the water bottle, full of Doom- 
dorf’s liquor, focusing the sun. . . . And look, Ran¬ 

dolph, how Bronson’s prayer was answered!” 

The tiny disk of light traveled on the plate of the 

lock. 

“It is fire from heaven!’’ 

The words rang above the roar of the fowling piece, 
and Randolph saw the dead man’s coat leap up on the 
couch, riddled by the shot. The gun, in its natural po¬ 
sition on the rack, pointed to the couch standing at the 
end of the chamber, beyond the offset of the wall, and 
the focused sun had exploded the percussion cap. 

Randolph made a great gesture, with his arm ex¬ 
tended. 

“It is a world,” he said, “filled with the mysterious 
joinder of accident!’ ’ 

“It is a world,” replied Abner, “filled with the 
mysterious justice of God!” 


ALBERT BENJAMIN CUNNINGHAM 

A lbert Benjamin Cunningham, son of Nathan De 
catur and Sarah Ann (Shafer) Cunningham, was 
born in Linden, Braxton County, West \ irginia, 
June 22, 1888. Doctor Cunningham gives the following 
interesting account of his early life: “My father was 
a Baptist minister in West Virginia in my youth. We 
were so prodigal of wealth that 1 enjoyed a ‘store suit 

when I was around ten 
-the first article of cloth¬ 
ing 1 had not bequeathed 
me (via the make-over 
route) by an elder broth¬ 
er. I still bear a grudge 
against this brother for 
the endless line of cast¬ 
off clothing he passed 
down to me. Though 
poor boy! he got it from 
his father, so he was not 
in much better shape. 

“The rudiments of 
the three R’s I received 
in a log school house un¬ 
der the watchful eye of 
a man who always had 
a few choice dogwood sprouts handy. The sprouts ex¬ 
plained my industry. 

“When we moved to the railroad 1 was obsessed by a 
desire to hang around trains. I grew expert at £ hop¬ 
ping’ them, proving without foundation my mother’s 
statement that I would get my legs cut off in the process. 
I still have my legs. I picked up telegraphy, and roamed 
the world as an operator; joined the regular army, got 



442 







ALBERT BENJAMIN CUNNINGHAM 


443 


hurt in a pole vault and was discharged from Port 
Slocum back before the World War was thought of. 

“I am afraid I was never very reliable as an em¬ 
ployee. I was too restless to stay put. I connected up 
with the department of Accountancy of the Carnegie 
Steel Company, and even yet have sincere sympathy for 
my superiors of those days. They endured a lot, bore 
many things patiently. But they didn’t discharge me! 
This is one of the inexplicable facts in my experience.’’ 

In 1913, Doctor Cunningham received an A.B. de¬ 
gree from Muskingum College and in 1915, a B.D. degree 
from Drew Theological Seminary. He had an M.A. de¬ 
gree conferred upon him in 1916 by New York Univer¬ 
sity. In 1917, Lebanon University honored him with the 
degree of Doctor of Letters. He was dean of Lebanon 
University in 1916, and dean of the College of Puget 
Sound from 1919 until 1922, when he resigned to become 
professor of English literature at the State College of 
Washington. 

Doctor Cunningham is the author of several books, 
all of which have been highly praised by critics. “The 
Manse at Barren Rocks ’ ’ and ‘ ‘ Singing Mountains ’ ’ are 
charmingly realistic stories of West Virginia life. Doc¬ 
tor Waitman Barbe says of the former work: “It is 
wholly unpretentious and as sincere as the sunshine of 
a bird’s nest, as Emerson would say. These are the 
dominant qualities of Cunningham’s books. They are 
wholesome from a literary standpoint as well as from 
any other standpoint.” 

Doctor Cunningham’s latest work is entitled “Old 
Black Bass,” and is the romance of a fish. A few years 
ago he wrote “The Romance of Two Fish” that was 
awarded a national prize and its success prompted him 
to write a longer story with the same subjects. 


444 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


THE ROMANCE OF TWO FISH 

My friend, I am an old man. This white hair— 
you would not think it was once black as midnight. It 
has been so long ago. 

I can't work much any more. See that hand? All 
drawed out o’ shape. Rheumatism. Hurts when I try 
to do anything. So come spring, I dig me a few worms 
and kinda go off down to the crick. 

There is a tollable deep hole down there, an’ the 
bank is good to set on. I bait my hook an’ throw it in 
an’ wait fer the floater to go under. 

But some days they won’t bite. But I don’t go 
home. The boys don’t need an old codger like me put¬ 
terin’ around. I just set on the bank an’ think about 
things. 

An' it was once when I was settin’ there—it musta 
been about four o’clock. I could hear Jessie—that’s my 
son Tom’s wife—a-callin’ the cows. 

Yes, sir, I was jest settin’ there thinkin’ when I saw 
this thing begin that I’m goin’ to tell you about. I saw 
the beginnin’ of a love affair ’tween two fish. 

Right away I hear you say this is a sure-enough fish 
story. The love of a fish! But—my friend, I am an old 
man. An’ what my eyes see they see. 

A little lady bass, slim like a chestnut leaf an’ so 
white I could almost see through her! This purty little 
thing lifted in the water not far out an’ stood still as 
one o’ our evenin’s up here. She reminded me o’ some 
slip of a gal, jest restin’ a minute. 

An’ whilst she was hangin’ there, up from the deep 
hole comes a bigger one, thick an’ black, though you 
could see he was only a young ’un, because he was not so 
very big himself and because he was kinda awkward, 
like he was embarrassed. 


Reprinted from “Centennial Fish Stories” (1920). 
By permission of Ebby and Imfirie. 



ALBERT BENJAMIN CUNNINGHAM 


445 


He comes to my little lady bass an’ sidles up to her 
like he was tryin ’ to make love to her. But what did 
she do? She turns quick like, flips him in the side with 
her tail, and swims off, indifferent. 

“Turned him down, by Jiminy!” I cried, watchin' 
him to see how he took it. 

There was nothin’ for me to do up to the house that 
night. Tom, he done all the work. So I thought about 
my little lady bass. Ivhoped she wouldn’t give in too 
easy. 

I was settiiT on the bank the next day when up 
she floats agin an' hangs there, indifferent like, but 
lookin’ out o’ the corner of her eye, I thought. 

An’ by Jiminy, didn’t he come after her? I hadn’t 
liked him the day before. He ’peared too overbearin’. 
But he was different now; kinda meek an’ humble. I 
hoped she wouldn’t turn him down. 

But she did. Before he even got up to her, she 
turned, dropped, an’ made fer the deep hole, quick as a 
flash. He dropped down, too, but plumb discouraged. 
1 could tell by the way his gills worked. 

“Keep after her, Sonny,” I encouraged. “You’ll 
land her yit.” 

An’ he went after her, but slow like. 

I didn’t git back fer nigh a week. My knee hurt 
me, an’ Jessie thought I’d better stay in. I wanted to 
work about, but Tom said he could do everything. Jes¬ 
sie was unravelin’ something, an’ I got her to let me do 
that, makin’ the yarn into a big ball. 

I got to thinkin’ about my fish. Had he got her 
yit? They might be gone, time I got back. So one 
morning I said my knee didn’t hurt any more, an’ got 
my bait can an’ started off. 

Out o’ sight o’ the house, I let down an’ limped a 
little. It wa’n’t quite well yit. But I got to the bank 
an’ set down an’ waited. She might a gone away, o’ 
course. 

Then I saw somethin’ cornin’ down toward me. It 
wa’n’t one, but two fish. I looked agin. There was my 


440 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

little lady fish cornin’, lookin’ slimmer an’ purtier’n 
ever an’ beside her was Sonny. 

“He got her,” I crowed. ‘'By Jiminy!” 

They come up close to the bank. What was they 
doin ’ ? Then I saw. Down on the bottom was a smooth 
place, bigger’n your two hands, an’ the little lady swum 
up onto it, as shy and purty as you please. 

“Spawnin’!” 

An’ oft' to one side like a fierce watch-dog was 
Sonny, keepin’ watch for her. A yaller willow blow 
fell into the water and scairt her. Quick as a flash she 
was by his side; an ’ he was all fierce-eyed an ’ threat- 
enin’, but not at her. He was guardin’ her. 

She actually went up an’ rubbed agin him, like she 
was sayin’ “My man.” An’ he, though wondrous 
pleased, looked fierce agin. Then she slid back upon the 
bed. 

My friend, I am an old man, an’ I saw it. 


BETTY BUSH WINGER 


B etty Bush Winger is of distinguished ancestry. On 
her mother’s side, she is of the same ancestral line 
as Eugene Fields and David R. Francis, and, there¬ 
fore, feels that her talent for writing is inherited. Her 
father, W. D. Bush, an attorney, was the son of Caleb 
Bush, a graduate of Harvard and a pioneer evangelist, 
■who organized and established more churches than any 
other man of his time. Mrs. Winger, in her early years, 
spent much time in the library of her scholarly grand¬ 
father who was a close student of the Bible which he 
read in the original Greek and Hebrew. Through his 
teachings, he gave her a deep appreciation of spiritual 
truths and inspired many of her poems. His dislike of 
artificiality, of formality, of so-called class distinction, 
and his love for all humanity, for nature, for simplicity, 
for democracy also became hers. 

Though Mrs. Winger has made of writing a hobby 
rather than her life work, she feels that for the effort 
expended her success has been all that she could reason¬ 
ably expect. Her work as secretary to Judge Bush for 
six years, and her experience in preparing detailed re¬ 
ports of the meetings of the United Daughters of the 
Confederacy in various States at which she has repre¬ 
sented her chapter on numerous occasions are regarded 
by her as most valuable training for her literary work. 

Although greatly handicapped during a period of 
several years’ illness, she is the author of many short 
poems which have appeared in trade journals and news¬ 
papers. She has also been a frequent contributor to 
The Burr McIntosh Monthly, The People’s Magazine, 
The Popular Magazine, and similar publications. 

She has had three books published, two of which 
are ‘'My Dream Garden” and “My Glad New Year and 
I.” She is also the author of several plays, and novel¬ 
ettes, and scenarios for motion pictures. 


447 


44S 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Mrs. Winger is the wife of Mr. E. C. Winger of 
Point Pleasant, West Virginia, to whom she was married 
in 1904. Mr. and Mrs. Winger have one daughter, 
Evalee. 


A COTTAGE SOXXET 

My home is but a cottage small, 

Mv stocks are butterflies and bees 
On just a square of grass and trees, 

Pet birds sing night-time’s madrigal 
And mid-wood echoes to the call. 

Where swings my hammock in the breeze, 
I watch God's creatures take their ease 
From migratory spring till fall. 

Drift slowly, leaves, and slower still 
Maintain your usual hush. 

I'd catch each colorful note and thrill 
Of dawn, of dark, of leaf and thrush! 

I 'll watch till leafless every tree 
The whole earth’s glad pageantry! 


SCATTERED SHELLS 

How like the pearl empaneled morns 
Night captives wait athrill 
In this tree’s bloom-shell the May adorns 
Slow opening of its will. 

As children on a shore, shell-strewn, 

We break each case to find 
The pearl—nor see the gold maroon 
With which its heart is lined. 

We leave sharp shells along our ways 
So fragment crushed and beat, 

We fail to clasp our pearl-hung days 
But cut our dragging feet. 




AXXA LOUISE PRICE 


A nna Louise Price, daughter of Henry W. and De¬ 
borah Perry Randolph, was born in 1836, in Man¬ 
chester County, Virginia. She was educated in 
New York City, and was a classmate and life-long friend 
of Margaret E. Sangster. She was the wife of the late 
William T. Price, D.D. Mrs. Price has written a great 
deal of verse, and, though eighty-seven years old, con¬ 
tributes a poem almost weekly to The Pocahontas Times , 
a paper published by her sons, Messrs. Calvin W. and 
Andrew Price. In 1921, she published a volume of verse 
entitled “The Old Church and Other Poems/' 


LARKSPUR 

A spray of Larkspur—nothing more— 

I found in the grass to-day; 

And it bore me backward many years, 

To a scene in childhood’s day. 

A group of merry children, we, 

Not far from the schoolhouse door; 

And we played with Larkspur, blue and white, 
And linked it o’er and o'er. 

’Twas jeweled work, we laughed with glee 
And toiled in the shady nook; 

A flowery chain for each little wrist, 

And some we pressed in a book. 

The recess had closed—the master called— 

We heard not the tinkling bell, 

Till a Macbeth vision burst on us, 

And marshalled us in to spell. 


449 



450 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Arraigned at the desk—the gleam of a knife 
To cut our fingers thro; 

The tearful bairns and the Larkspur chains, 
How plain it comes to view! 

’Twas a cruel lie to tell a child, 

And I heard no lies at home; 

I could feel the edge of the keen, sharp knife, 
And see the blood trickling down. 

We spake not a word, made no defense, 

For we felt that a crime was ours 
More heinous far than words could paint, 
And all for the pretty flowers. 

The master gave “reprieve,” he said, 

’Twas another death we thought; 

0, the Larkspur flowers in the recess hour, 
What a havoc it had wrought! 

And just as I passed that summer day, 

With its varied light and shade, 

And the children’s smiles turned into tears, 
So life’s after years are made. 

I love the flowers that I suffered for 
Ere yet I could read or write; 

And the Larkspur spray, tho’ my head is gray, 
I welcome with great delight. 


MARY MEEK ATKESON 


M ary Meek Atkeson, daughter of Thomas Clark and 
Cordelia (Meek) Atkeson, was born at Lawnvale 
Farm near Buffalo, West Virginia. She has had 
excellent academic training. In 1910, she received an 
A.B. degree from West Virginia University and, in 1913 
an A. M. degree from that institution. She spent the 
year 1914-15 as a graduate student in the University 
of Missouri, and the following four years as instructor 
in English in West Virginia University. In 1919, she 
received a Ph.D. degree from Ohio State University. 

She is the author of “A study of the Local Liter¬ 
ature of the Upper Ohio Valley,” “A study of the Lit¬ 
erature of West Virginia,” and articles on the history 
of West Virginia literature in the “Semi-Centennial 
History of West Virginia” and in “West Virginia 
Old and New” by Professor J. M. Callahan of West Vir¬ 
ginia University. She is also the author of “The Cross 
Roads Meetin’ House,” a popular rural play, two 
one-act plays, “Don’t” and “The Will,” and a page¬ 
ant entitled ‘ ‘ The Good Old Days. ’ ’ Doctor At¬ 
keson has written nurUerous articles, plays, stories, and 
poems that have appeared in The Country Gentle¬ 
man , The Ladies’ Home Journal, Good Housekeeping , 
McCall’s , The Pictorial Review, The Editor , The Eng¬ 
lish Journal, The Penwoman, and The Farmer’s Wife . 

She is a member of the League of American Pen- 
women, The International Association of Arts and Let¬ 
ters and the American Association of University Women. 


451 


452 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


BANDITS AND SUCH 

“Well, bandits are uncomfortable folks to meet up 
with, I ? ll admit, but then what's a fellow to expect when 
he knocks about on the corners of this angular sphere all 
the time?” said Jim Harkness leaning back comfortably 
in his chair, as he finished his story and his cup of black 
coffee at the same moment. Pretty little Mrs. Carter 
set a box of cigars on the table before her husband and, 
with a farewell nod and a smile, slipped out of the room. 
Carter looked after her affectionately, stretched himself 
in his chair and pushed the box of cigars toward his 
friend. 

“You’ve sure had some experiences,” he nodded, 
11 with your bandits and pirates and heathen Chinees, but 
after all the world is pretty much alike all over—and 
human nature’s human nature under white skins or 
brown or yellow, I find. Of course we Americans here 
in the land of the free pride ourselves on being a little 
better than our neighbors, but there are crooks every¬ 
where—bandits, you might call ’em—at least I happened 
to run upon a couple in this country a few years ago.” 
Harkness lighted a cigar and prepared to listen. 

“In the West, I suppose?” he asked. 

“No, strangely enough,” said his friend, “it was 
wdien I came back East. You know after I had been in 
Oregon eight years developing my apple orchards, I 
caught a sucker—an eastern stock company—and sold 
out half my apple trees for fifty thousand down. Fool 
things, those stock companies, anyway. Well, I’d been 
sticking all my cash back into the land as quick as I 
made it and hadn’t had fifty cents in my pocket for near 
about eight years, I reckon. So I just decided to take 
a little fling—run over to see the folks, and then on to 
New York to see the fellow T s and get a decent hair cut 
once more. I was tired of the West, too, so I stuck my 
little roll in my pocket to invest in the East again. 

‘ ‘ Eight years is a long time, you know, and as I got 


MARY MEEK ATKESON 


453 


to the Middle West I began to think about all the folks 
back home, and to wonder whether I’d know any of the 
youngsters who’d been growing up in the meantime. 
Every station we came to I stared the people almost out 
of countenance in my search for a familiar face. But I 
didn’t see a sign of anybody until, after we had left K—, 
a girl took the chair in front of me. She was a quiet 
looking little thing—deuced pretty, though—in a gray¬ 
ish sort of suit and a cobwebby hat with pink things on 
it—roses, I reckon.” Harkness smiled knowingly. 

k ‘01i, you needn’t grin,” said Carter, carefully shak¬ 
ing the ash from his cigar. “I guess I would have 
tumbled , all right, anyway, but the fact is I had noticed 
something familiar about her mouth. I saw the initials 
on her suitcase, too, as the porter carried it in—J. E. D., 
1 remember. 

‘ ‘ I began thinking over the old names at home, hav¬ 
ing nothing better to do—middle western scenery is a 
beastly bore, anyway. And by the time we had reached 
L— I had figured out that she was—or at least she might 
be—a daughter of my old friend Judge Dailey of Cleve¬ 
land. The judge, you remember, always had a funny 
little twist to his mouth and that was what struck me 
about the girl the first thing. Besides I had a vague 
memory of a name, Janet Dailey, but whether I had read 
it in a christening announcement or an obituary, I 
couldn’t think for the life of me. 

“Well, all the way to Redding Junction I tried to 
think of some way to speak to that girl, but, bless me, 
if I could think of a thing. She sat there reading a 
magazine and I could just see the curve of her cheek and 
a little wisp of a curl on the back of her neck.” 

“You might have raised a window or picked up a 
handkerchief, I believe that is the usual mode,” sug¬ 
gested Harkness, smiling. 

“I thought of that,” said Carter, “but it was so 
cold nobody wanted a window open and she didn’t drop 
any handkerchief and the porter carried her suit-case off 
at Redding Junction—so there I was. 


454 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

“We had to wait an hour at the Junction for the 
Central train, but I met Dick Grimes, of the Varsity 
squad, you remember—only he is the Honorable Richard 
Grimes, chief attorney at Redding, now—and we talked 
things over just like old grads. The girl sat near us in 
the crowded little station, reading her magazine again. 
Well, of course I told Dick all about my good luck. 
‘Gee!’ I said, slapping my pocket like a fool, ‘ You don’t 
know how it feels to have fifty thousand plunks in your 
pocket after you’ve been down to fifty red coppers or 
less for eight years! ’ 

‘ ‘ The girl heard me, it seems, for all her interest in 
her old magazine. And she noticed that a couple of 
crooks—professionals, no doubt—were interested, too, 
and saw them conferring when Dick and I took a little 
turn outside to talk over some business matters. Dick 
was always full of big schemes for getting rich quick on 
investments, you remember? Well, when the train pull¬ 
ed in I told him good-bye and rushed back to carry the 
girl’s suit-case, but didn’t find her. So I joined the 
jostling crowd at the train steps, hoping to get a seat 
near her in the car. As I went up some fellow kept 
crowding me till I felt like braining him with my grip¬ 
sack. 

“ ‘I want to get down, I want to get down,’ he 
whined. 

“ ‘Well, get down on the other side of the train,’ ” 
I snapped, for someone else was pushing me from be¬ 
hind. After so long a time I got in but didn’t find the 
girl, so I sat down to watch for her. Pretty soon she 
came in hurriedly, her eyes looking scared. I saw that 
something was the matter. She looked at me, sank into 
the seat opposite, then looked back in a little fluttery 
scared way. I wanted to butt in but didn’t quite dare 
risk it—you see, by this time I had reached the stage 
'where I wanted to hunt up a real introduction with papa 
and mamma and Aunt Jemima standing by, and all that. 
But she turned to me quickly. 

“ ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said, ‘but I—I just saw a 


MARY MEEK ATKESON 


455 


man take your pocketbook—as you came up the steps.’ 
I put my hand to my pocket and, sure enough, my purse 
was gone! Evidently the crooks had got it as they push¬ 
ed me in the crowd. I dare say I looked pretty blank. 
‘ Hurry! ’ she cried, ‘ They went into the station, I think. 
Perhaps, you can catch them yet.’ 

‘ ‘ VV ell, sir, if you ’ll believe me, I considered. I 
wanted to give those crooks their just deserts, but then— 
there was the girl, you know. ‘Are you a daughter of 
Judge Dailey of Cleveland?’ I asked, fishing out a card. 
‘ Why, ye-es,’ she admitted, looking at my name, ‘and I 
remember father’s speaking of you—but—but the train 
is going!’ ‘I know it,’ said I coolly taking the seat 
beside her. She gasped a little, but you know girls really 
fall for that high-handed kind of thing, when they’re 
sure the fellow’s all right, good family and all that. 
And—well—we talked, off and on, all the way to the 
home town.” 

“Must have been a mighty pretty girl,” remarked 
Harkness dryly. 

“Oh, she was,” said Carter enthusiastically, “but 
then—you can be the judge of that—she was here just a 
minute ago,” and he glanced toward the kitchen where 
they could hear light footsteps going busily up and down: 
Harkness whistled softly. 

“Well, I don’t know that I blame you,” he said, 
“but fifty thousand dollars is a whole lot of money, 
you know.” 

“Oh, as to that,” chuckled Carter as he dropped 
the stub of his cigar into the ash tray, ‘ ‘ you see I didn’t 
have the fifty thousand. Before we left the junction I 
had turned it over to Dick Grimes to invest in railroad 
bonds for me!” 


The Penwoman, 1922. 


456 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


CONTENT 

Would that my talents were for nobler things,— 

To charm the ages with a lasting lay, 

To crowd my bit of canvas with array 
Of pageants, purple, and the pomp of kings; 

With soft-toned harmonies from] trembling strings, 

The world enslaved by lingering sound to sway; 
AVith quickening touch to mold the pliant clay,— 
Till bards should sound my praise a thousand springs. 

Yet ever to my hand a task I find, 

A tale to tell, a common song to sing, 

A smile to cheer a weary one, to bind 
With tender art a sparrow's broken wing. 
Trusting the deeds unseen, like stars by day, 

In that last night may gleam along my way. 


MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 



M argaret Prescott Montague was born at White 
Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, November 20, 
1878. She is the daughter of Russell W. and 
Harriet A. (Cary) Montague. Her father, after his 
graduation from Harvard, went to London to study law 
at the Temple, but later decided for the sake of his 
health to engage in* farming in West Virginia. Miss 

Montague is a relative 
of William II. Prescott, 
the historian, and Har¬ 
riet Prescott Spofford. 
She was educated at 
home and at private 
schools. 

Her first story was 
composed before she had 
learned to write. The 
hero was a. boy who 
stained his face with 
pokeberry juice and who 
later distinguished him¬ 
self by joining a circus. 

Few West Virginia 
authors have used local 
color so frequently as 
has Miss Montague. 

Her story “The Poet, Miss Kate and I ’ is written 
in the form of a journal. The heroine is a West Vir¬ 
ginia girl and the hero a New Englander. ‘‘The Sowing 
of Alderson Cree and “In Calvert's Valley” are sto¬ 
ries of mountaineer life, and show a great advance in 
style and technique. In “Linda” the author gives not 
only a picture of mountaineer life but also one of the 
conventional life of society leaders in the exclusive Back 
Bay District of Boston. 


Copyright by 
Underwood & Underwood 


457 




458 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


As a writer of short stories Miss Montague has woo 
international reputation. Some of her best work deals 
with the issues of the World War. In “England to 
America,” which was awarded the O’Henry memorial 
prize in 1919, she sought to bring about a better under¬ 
standing between the two countries. She writes: “1 
don’t like people to think I wrote ‘England to America’ 
with propanganda in mind. I didn’t. I felt that there 
was a wistful spirit among some of the best elements in 
England reaching out for America’s sympathy. They 
couldn’t say what they felt. They were too proud, too 
reserved. But I wanted to try to interpret them and 
let them see that we would understand, and to assure 
them that in the midst of all our love for France we were 
not unmindful of England’s great, silent, heart-breaking 
heroism. ’ ’ 

Another of Miss Montague’s stories, “Uncle Sam of 
Freedom Ridge,” which was highly praised by Woodrow 
Wilson, is one of the strongest and most touching ap¬ 
peals that has ever been made for a league of nations. 
This story was tilmed by Harry Levy, who paid two 
hundred dollars a word for the privilege. 

In commenting on “The Gift,” “England to Arner- 




ica," and “Uncle Sam of Freedom Ridge,” Edward J. 
O’Brien says that from the point of view of style these 
stories show distinction in the Henry James tradition 
only with Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Anne Douglas 
Sedgwick, Arthur Johnson, and LI. G. Dwight. 

While Miss Montague’s brother was superintendent 
of the Deaf and Blind Institution at Romney, she be¬ 
came deeply interested in blind and deaf children. As 
a result of her interest, she has written a number of 
touching stories in which she describes the friendships 
and the adventures of blind and deaf children in a 
state school. 

Doctor Richard C. Cabot says in the introduction 

»/ 

to “Closed Doors:” “Truth is what I feel especially in 
Miss Montague's stories. Though they spring out of a 
peculiarly intimate and sympathetic knowledge of a 


MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 459 

# 

school for the Blind and the Deaf, they err neither by 
literalism nor by sentimentality. The busy life she 
draws has a current and a vigor that seem to establish 
a new stanadrd,—not so much lower than ours as differ¬ 
ent. She lets us see how deaf children build up new 
imagery and develop a naming power really poetic. Over 
her shoulder we watch the unconquerable human soul 
building its nest and finding its food even in the dark 
and silent country which she has chosen to describe/’ 
Miss Montague has in recent years written a num¬ 
ber of poems with a lyric quality that has charmed her 
readers. It is to be hoped that in the future she may 
devote more of her time to the writing of verse. 


THE SOUL OP THE LITTLE ROOM 

Sweet room, dear loved of all my people, where 
The bluetiled hearth has held the leaping flare 
Of singing logs w r hose hearts still kept the dead 
Enchanted melody of birds long fled, 

And where with understanding friends my folk 
Have watched the tapestry of flame, and spoke 
Slow musing thoughts, the while with gentle chime 
The clock made audible the flight of time, 

Hast thou no spirit? Here on summer days 
The wind on tip-toe feet comes in and plays 
Now with the curtain, now a lady's hair, 

Then, fitful, sweeps slow fingers here and there, 

Like *ome unseen and silent child who quests 
With eager hands this little world. Here rests 
The peace of tranquil years. Dear little place, 

Hast thou no soul to guess thine own sweet grace? 

One child who dreamed and laughed, suffered and grew 
Herein to womanhood believes it true 
Thou has a soul, distilled from all the years, 

A heart made slowly up from all the fears, 

The hope, the singing loves, the joy and life 
Of those who played their parts of calm or strife 


460 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Through youth to comprehending age, 

On this sequestered corner of Life’s stage. 

Then give thyself, 0 little room, fling wide 
Thine heart! And may thy garnered soul abide 
With all who shelter here. From out thy meed 
Of wisdom give to each his dearest need— 

May the light-hearted find some pathos here, 

But to the sad, 0 little room, give cheer! 

The Atlantic Monthly, 1913. 


ENGLAND TO AMERICA 

‘ ‘ Lord, but English people are funny! ’ ’ 

This was the perplexed mental ejaculation that 
young Lieutenant Skipworth Cary, of Virginia, found 
his thoughts constantly reiterating during his stay in 
Devonshire. Had he been, he wondered, a confiding 
fool, to accept so trustingly Chev Sherwood’s sugges¬ 
tion that he spend a part of his leave, at least, at Bishops- 
thorpe, where Chev’s people lived? But why should 
he have anticipated any difficulty here, in this very cor¬ 
ner of England which had bred his own ancestors, 
when he had always hit it off so splendidly with his 
English comrades at the Front ? Here, however, though 
they were all awfully kind,—at least, he was sure they 
meant to be kind,—something w r as always bringing him 
up short: something that he could not lay hold of, but 
which made him feel like a blind man groping in a 
strange place, or worse, like a bull in a china-shop. He 
was prepared enough to find differences in the American 
and English points of view. But this thing that baffled 
him did not seem to have to do with that; it was some¬ 
thing deeper, something very definite, he was sure—and 
yet, what was it? The worst of it was that he had a 
curious feeling as if they were all—that is, Lady Sher¬ 
wood and Gerald; not Sir Charles so much—protecting 
him from himself—keeping him from making breaks, as 
he phrased it. That hurt-and annoyed him, and piqued 


MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 461 

his vanity. Was he a social blunderer, and weren’t a 
Virginia gentleman’s manners to be trusted in England 
without leading-strings ? 

He had been at the Front for several months with 
the Royal Flying Corps, and when his leave came, his 
Flight Commander, Captain Cheviot Sherwood, discov¬ 
ering that he meant to spend it in England where he 
hardly knew a soul, had said his people down in Devon¬ 
shire would be jolly glad to have hiru stop with them; 
and Skipworth Cary, knowing that, if the circumstances 
had been reversed, his people down in Virginia would 
indeed have been jolly glad to entertain Captain Sher¬ 
wood, had accepted unhesitatingly. The invitation had 
been seconded by a letter from Lady Sherwood,—Chev’s 
mother,—and after a few days sight-seeing in London, 
he had come down to Bishopsthorpe, very eager to know 
his friend’s family, feeling as he did about Chev himself. 
“He’s the finest man that ever went up in the air,” he 
had written home; and to his own family’s disgust, his 
letters had been far more full of Chev Sherwood than 
they had been of Skipworth Cary. 

And now here he was, and he almbst wished him¬ 
self away—wished almost that he were back again at the 
front, carrying on under Chev. There, at least, you 
knew what you were up against. The job might be hard 
enough but it wasn’t baffling and queer, with hidden 
undercurrents that you couldn’t chart. It seemed to 
him that this baffling feeling of constraint had rushed 
to meet him on the very threshold of the drawing-room, 
when he made his first appearance. 

As he entered, he had a sudden sensation that they 
had been awaiting him in a strained expectancy, and 
that, as he appeared, they adjusted unseen masks and 
began to play-act at something. “But English people 
don’t play-act very well,” he commented to himself, re¬ 
viewing the scene afterwards. 

Lady Sherwood had come forward and greeted him 
in a manner which would have been pleasant enough, if 
he had not, with quick sensitiveness, felt it to be forced. 


462 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

But perhaps that was English stiffness. Then she had 
turned to her husband, who was standing staring into 
the fireplace, although, as it was June, there was no fire 
there to stare at. 

“Charles,” she said, “here is Lieutenant Cary;” 
and her voice had a certain note in it which at home 
Cary and his sister Nancy were in the habit of designat¬ 
ing ‘ ‘ mother-making-dad-mind-his-manners.’ ’ 

At her words the old man—and Cary startled to see 
how old and broken he was—turned round and held out 
his hand. “How d’you do?” he said jerkily, “how 
d’you do?” and then turned abruptly back again to the 
fireplace 

“Hello! What’s up! The old boy doesn’t like 
me!” was Cary’s quick, startled comment to himself. 

He was so surprised by the look the other bent up¬ 
on him, that he involuntarily glanced across to a long 
mirror to see if there was anything wrong with his uni¬ 
form. But no, that appeared to be all right. It was 
himself, then—or his country; perhaps the old sport 
didn’t fall for Americans. 

“And here is Gerald,” Lady Sherwood went on in 
her low remote voice, which somehow made the Virginian 
feel very far away. 

It was with genuine pleasure, though with some sur¬ 
prise, that he turned to greet Gerald Sherwood, Chev’s 
younger brother, who had been, tradition in the corps 
said, as gallant and daring a flyer as Chev himself, until 
he got his in the face five months ago. 

“I’m mighty glad to meet you,” he said eagerly, 
in his pleasant, muffled Southern voice, grasping the 
hand the other stretched out, and looking with deep re¬ 
spect at the scarred face and sightless eyes. 

Gerald laughed a little, but it was a pleasant laugh, 
and his handclasp was friendly. 

“That’s real American, isn’t it?” he said. “I 
ought to have remembered and said it first. Sorry.” 

Skip worth laughed too. “Well,” he conceded, 
“we generally are glad to meet people in my country, 


MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 463 

and we don’t- care who says it first. But,” he added, 
k *l didn't think I'd have the luck to find you here.” 

He remembered that Chev had regretted that he 
probably wouldn't see Gerald, as the latter was at St. 
Hunstan’s, where they were re-educating the blinded 
soldiers. 

The other hesitated a moment, and then said rather 
awkwardly, “Oh, I’m just home for a little while; I only 
got here this morning, in fact.” 

Skip worth noted the hesitation. Did the old people 
get panicky at the thought of entertaining a wild man 
from Virginia, and send an S O S for Gerald, he won¬ 
dered. 

“We are so glad you could come to us,” Lady Sher¬ 
wood said rather hastily just then. And again he could 
not fail to note that she was prompting her husband. 

The latter reluctantly turned around, and said, 
“Yes, yes, quite so. Welcome to Bishopsthorpe, my 
boy, ’ ’ as if his wife had pulled a string, and he respond¬ 
ed mechanically, without quite knowing what he said. 
Then, as his eyes rested a moment on his guest, he looked 
as if he would like to bolt out of the room. He con¬ 
trolled himself, however, and, jerking round again to 
the fireplace, went on murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes,” 
vaguely—just like the dormouse at the Mad Tea-Party, 
who went to sleep, saying, “Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle,” 
Cary could not help thinking to himself. 

But, after all, it wasn’t really funny, it was pathetic. 
Gosh, how doddering the poor old boy was! Skip- 
worth wondered, with a sudden twist at his heart, if the 
war was playing the deuce with his home people, too. 
Was his own father going to pieces like this, and had his 
mother’s gay vivacity fallen into that still remoteness 
of Lady Sherwood’s? But of course not! The Carys 
hadn’t suffered as the poor Sherwoods had, with their 
youngest son, Curtin, killed early in the war, and now 
Gerald knocked out so tragically. Lord, he thought, how 
they must all bank on Chev! And of course they would 
want to hear at once about him. “I left Chev as fit as 


464 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

anything, and he sent all sorts of messages/’ he report¬ 
ed, thinking it more discreet to deliver Chev’s messages 
thus vaguely than to repeat his actual carefree remark, 
which had been, “Oh, tell ’em I’m jolly as a tick.” 

But evidently there was something wrong with the 
words as they were, for instantly he was aware of that 
curious sense of withdrawal on their part. Hastily re¬ 
viewing them, he decided that they had sounded too 
familiar from a stranger and a younger man like him¬ 
self. He supposed he ought not to have spoken of Chev 
by his first name. Gee, what sticklers they were! 
Wouldn’t his family—dad and mother and Nancy—have 
fairly lapped up any messages from him, even if they had 
been delivered a bit awkwardly? However, he added, 
as a concession to their point of view, “But of course, 
you’ll have had later news of Captain Sherwood.” 

To which, after a pause, Lady Sherwood responded, 
“Oh, yes,” in that remote and colorless voice which 
might have meant anything or nothing. 

At this point dinner was announced. 

Lady Sherwood drew her husband away from the 
empty fireplace, and Gerald slipped his arm through 
the Virginian’s, sa3dng pleasantly, “I’m learning to 
carry on fairly well at St. Dunstan’s, but I confess I 
still like to have a pilot.” 

To look at the tall young fellow beside him, whose 
scarred face was so reminiscent of Chev’s untouched 
good looks, who had known all the immense freedom of 
the air, but who was now learning to carry on in the 
dark, moved Skipworth Cary to generous homage. 

“You know my saying I’m glad to meet you isn’t 
just American,” he said half shyly, but warmly. “It’s 
plain English, and the straight truth. I’ve wanted to 
meet you awfully. The Oldsters are always holding up 
your glorious exploits to us newcomers. Withers never 
gets tired telling about that fight of yours with the four 
enemy planes. And besides,” he rushed on eagerly, 
“I’m glad to have a chance to tell Chev’s brother—Cap¬ 
tain Sherwood’s brother, I mean—what I think of him. 


MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 


465 


Only, as a matter of fact, I can't/’ he broke off with a 
laugh. “I can’t put it exactly into words, but I tell you 
I’d follow that man straight into hell and out the other 
side—or go there alone if he told me to. He is the finest 
chap that ever flew.” 

And then he felt as if a cold douche had been flung 
in his face, for after a moment’s pause, the other re¬ 
turned, “That’s awfully good of you,” in a voice so dis¬ 
tant and formal that the Virginian could have kicked 
himself. What an ass he was to be so darned enthu¬ 
siastic with an Englishman! He supposed it was bad 
form to show any pleasure over praise of a member of 
your family. Lord; if Chev got the V. C., he reckoned 
it would be awful to speak of it. Still, you would have 
thought Gerald might have stood for a little praise of 
him. But then, glancing sideways at his companion, he 
surprised on his face a look so strange and suffering that 
it came to him almost violently what it must be never to 
fly again; to be on the threshold of life, with endless 
days of blackness ahead. Good God! How cruel he had 
been to flaunt Chev in his face! In remorseful and 
hasty reparation he stumbled on, “But the old fellows 
are always having great discussions as to which was the 
best—you or your brother. Withers always maintains 
you were.” 

“Withers lies, then!” the other retorted. “I never 
touched Chev—never came within a mile of him, and 
never could have.” 

They reached the dinner-table with that, and young 
Cary found himself bewildered and uncomfortable. It 
Gerald hadn’t liked praise of Chev, he had liked praise 
of himself even less, it seemed. 

Dinner was not a success. The Virginian found 
that, if there was to be conversation, the burden of carry¬ 
ing it on was upon him, and gosh! they don’t mind 
silences in this man’s island, do they ? he commented des¬ 
perately to himself, thinking how' different it was from 
America. Why, there they acted as if silence was an 
egg that had just been laid, and everyone had to cackle 


466 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

at once to cover it up. But here the talk constantly fell 
to the ground, and nobody but himself seemed concerned 
to pick it up. His attempt to praise Chev had not 
been successful, and he could understand their not 
wanting to hear about flying and the war before Gerald. 

So at last, in desperation, he wandered off into de¬ 
scriptions of America, finding to his relief, that he had 
struck the right note at last. They were glad to hear 
about the States, and Lady Sherwood inquired politely 
if the Indians still gave them much trouble; and when 
he assured her that in Virginia, except for the Poca¬ 
hontas tribe, they were all pretty well subdued, she ac¬ 
cepted his statement with complete innocency. And he 
was so delighted to find at last a subject to which they 
were evidently cordial, that he was quite carried away, 
and wound up by inviting them all to visit his family in 
Richmond, as soon as the war was over. 

Gerald accepted at once, with enthusiasm; Lady 
Sherwood made polite murmurs, smiling at him in quite 
a warm and almost, indeed, maternal manner. Even 
Sir Charles, who had been staring at the food on his 
plate as if he did not quite know what to make of it, 
came to the surface long enough to mumble, “Yes, yes, 
very good idea. Countries must carry on together— 
What?-’ 

But that was the only hit of the whole evening, and 
when the Virginian retired to his room, as he made an 
excuse to do early, he was so confused and depressed 
that he fell into an acute attack of homesickness. 

Heavens, he thought, as he tumbled into bed, just 
suppose, now, this was little old Richmond, Virginia, 
U. S. A., instead of being Bishopsthorpe, Avery Cross 
near Wick, and all the rest of it! And at that, he grinned 
to himself. England wasn’t such an all-fired big 
country that you’d think they’d have to ticket them¬ 
selves with addresses a yard long, for fear they’d get 
lost—now would you? Well, anyway, suppose it was 
Riehmond, and his train just pulling into the Byrd 
Street Station. He stretched out luxuriously, and let 


MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 467 

his mind picture the whole familiar scene. The wind 
was blowing right, so there was the mellow homely smell 
of tobacco m the streets, and plenty of people all along 
the way to hail him with outstretched hands and shouts 
of ‘‘Hey, Skip Cary, when did you get back?” “Wel¬ 
come home, my boy!” “Well, will you look what the 
cat dragged in! ” And so he came to his own front 
door-step, and walking straight in, surprised the whole 
family at breakfast; and yes—doggone it! if it wasn’t 
Sunday, and they having waffles! And after that his 
obliging fancy bore him up Franklin Street, through 
Monroe Park, and so to Miss Sallie Berkeley’s door. He 
was sound asleep before he reached it, but in his dreams, 
light as a little bird, she came flying down the broad 
stairway to meet him, and— 

But when he waked next morning, he did not find 
himself in Virginia, but in Devonshire, where, to his un¬ 
bounded embarrassment, a white house-maid was putting 
up his curtains and whispering something about his 
bath. And though he pretended profound slumber, he 
was well aware that people do not turn brick-red in 
their sleep. And the problem of what was the matter 
with the Sherwood family was still before him. 

II. 

“They’re playing a game,” he told himself after a 
few r days. “That is, Lady Sherwood and Gerald are— 
poor old Sir Charles can’t make much of a stab at it. 
The game is to make me think they’re awfully glad to 
have me, when in reality there’s something about me, or 
something I do, that gets them on the raw. ’ ’ 

He almjost decided to make some excuse and get 
away; but after all that was not easy. In English 
novels, he remembered, they always had a wire calling 
them to London; but darn it all! the Sherwoods knew 
mighty well there wasn’t anyone in London who cared a 
hoot about him. 

The thing that got his goat most, he told himself, 
was that they apparently didn’t like his friendship with 
Cliev. Anyway they didn’t seem to want him to talk 


468 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

about him; and whenever he tried to express his warm 
appreciation for all that the older man had done for 
him, he was instantly aware of a wall of reserve on their 
part, a holding of themselves aloof from him. That 
puzzled and hurt him, and put him on his dignity. He 
concluded that they thought it was cheeky of a youngster 
like him to think that a man like Chev could be his 
friend; and if that was the way they felt, he reckoned 
he'd jolly well better shut up about it. 

But whatever it was that they didn’t like about him, 
they most certainly did want him to have a good time. 
He and his pleasure appeared to be for the time being 
their chief consideration. And after the first day or so 
he began indeed to enjoy himself extremely. For one 
thing, he came to love the atmosphere of the old place 
and of the surrounding country, which he and Gerald 
explored together. He liked to think that ancestors of 
his own had been inheritors of these green lanes, and 
pleasant mellow stretches. Then, too, after the first few 
days, he could not help seeing that they really began to 
like him, which of course was reassuring, and tapped 
his Own warm friendliness, which was always ready 
enough to be released. And besides, he got by accident 
what he took to be a hint as to the trouble. He was 
passing the half-open door of Lady Sherwood’s morn¬ 
ing-room, when he heard Sir Charles’ voice break out, 
“Good God, Elizabeth, I don’t see how you stand it! 
When I see him so straight and fine-looking, and so un¬ 
touched, beside our poor lad, and thipk—and think—” 

Skipworth hurried out of earshot, but now he 
understood that look of aversion in the old man’s eyes 
which had so startled him at first. Of course, the poor 
old boy might easily hate the sight of him beside Gerald. 
With Gerald himself he really got along famously. He 
was a most delightful companion, full of anecdotes and 
history of the country-side, every foot of which he had 
apparently explored in the old days with Chev and the 
younger brother, Curtin. Yet even with Gerald, Cary 
sometimes felt that aloofness and reserve, and that older 


MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 469 

protective air that they all showed him. Take, for in¬ 
stance, that afternoon when they were lolling together 
on the grass in the park. The Virginian running on in 
his usual eager manner, had plunged without thinking 
into an account of a particularly daring bit of flying 
on Cliev's part, when suddenly he realized that Gerald 
had rolled over on the grass and buried his face in his 
arms, and interrupted himself awkwardly. “But, of 
course,” he said, “he must have written home about it 
himself.” 

“No, or if he did, I didn’t hear of it. - Go on,” 
Gerald said in a muffled voice. 

A great rush of coifipassion and remorse over¬ 
whelmed the A r irginian, and he burst out penitently, 
“What a brute I am! I’m always forgetting and run¬ 
ning on about flying, when I know it must hurt like the 
very devil!” 

The other drew a difficult breath. “Yes,” he admit¬ 
ted, “what you say does hurt in a way—in a way you 
can’t understand. But all the same I like to hear you. 
Go on about Cliev.” 

So Skipworth went on and finished his account, 
winding up, “I don’t believe there’s another man in the 
service who could have pulled it off—but I tell you your 
brother’s one in a million.” 

‘ ‘ Good God, don’t I know it! ” the other burst out. 
“We were all three the jolliest pals together,” he got 
out presently in a choked voice, “Chev and the young 
un and I; and now— ’ ’ 

He did not finish, but Cary guessed his meaning. 
Now the young un, Curtin, was dead, and Gerald him¬ 
self knocked out. But, Heavens! the Virginian thought, 
did Gerald think Chev would go back on him now on ac¬ 
count of his blindness? Well you could everlastingly 
bet he wouldn’t! 

‘ ‘ Chev thinks the world and all of you ! ” he cried in 
eager defense of his friend’s loyalty. “Lots of times 
when we’re all awfully jolly together, he makes some ex¬ 
cuse and goes off by himself; and Withers told me it was 


470 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

because he was so frightfuly cut up about you. Withers 
said he told him once that he'd a lot rather have got it 
himself—so you can everlastingly bank on him!” 

Gerald gave a terrible little gasp. “I—I knew he'd 
feel like that,” he got out. “We’ve always cared such a 
lot for each other.” And then he pressed his face harder 
than ever in the grass, and his long body quivered all 
over. But not for long. In a moment he took fierce 
hold on himself, muttering, “Well, one must carry on, 
whatever happens,” and apologized disjointedly. 
“What a fearful fool you must think me! And—and 
this isn’t very pippy for you, old chap.” Presently, af¬ 
ter that, he sat up, and said, brushing it all aside, 

11 We ’re facing the old moat, are n’t we ? There’s an in¬ 
teresting bit of tradition about it that I must tell you.” 

And there }mu were, Cary thought: no matter how 
much Gerald might be suffering from his misfortune, he 
must carry on just the same, and see that his visitor had 
a pleasant time. It made the Virginian feel like an out¬ 
sider and very young, as if he were not old enough for 
them to show him their real feelings. 

Another thing that he noticed was that they did 
not seem to want him to meet people. They never took 
him anywhere to call, and if visitors came to the house, 
they showed an almost panicky desire to get him out of 
the way. That again hurt his pride. What in heaven’s 
name was the matter with him anyway! 

III. 

However, on the last afternoon of his stay at 
Bishopsthorpe, he told himself with a rather rueful grin, 
that his manners must have improved a little, for they 
took him to tea at the rectory. 

He was particularly glad to go there because, from 
certain jokes of Withers’ who had known the Sherwoods 
since boyhood, he gathered that Chev and the rector’s 
daughter were engaged. And just as he would have 
liked Chev to meet Sallie Berkeley, so he w T anted to meet 
Miss Sybil Gaylord. 

He had little hope of having a tete-a-tete with her, 


MARGx\RET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 471 

but as it fell out he did. They were all in the rectory 
garden together, Gerald and the rector aGittle behind 
Miss Gaylord and himself, as they strolled down a long 
walk with high hedges bordering it. On the other side 
of the hedge Lady Sherwood and her hostess still sat at 
the tea-table, and then it was that Cary heard Mrs. Gay¬ 
lord say distinctly, “I’m afraid the strain has been too 
much for you—you should have let us have him.” 

To which Lady Sherwood returned quickly, “Oh, 
no, that would have been impossible with—” 

“Come—come this way—I must show you the view 
from the arbor,” Miss Gaylord broke in breathlessly; 
and laying a hand on his arm, she turned him abruptly 
into a side path. 

Glancing down at her, the Southerner could not but 
note the panic and distress in her fair face. It was so 
obvious that the overheard words referred to him, and 
he was so bewildered by the whole situation, that he 
burst out impulsively, “I say, what is the matter with 
me? Why do they find me so hard to put up with? Is 
it something I do—or don’t they like Americans? Hon¬ 
estly, I wish you’d tell me.” 

She stood still at that, looking at him, her blue eyes 
full of distress and concern. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she cried. “They would be 
so sorry to have you think anything like that.” 

“But what is it?” he persisted. “Don’t they like 
Americans?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, it isn’t that—Oh, quite the contrary! ’ ’ she 
returned eagerly. 

“Then it’s something about me they don’t like?” 

“Oh, no, no! Least of all, that— don’t think that!” 
she begged. 

“But what am I to think then?” 

“Don’t think anything just yet,” she pleaded. 
“Wait a little, and you will understand.” 

She was so evidently distressed, that he could not 
press her further; and fearing she might think him un¬ 
appreciative, he said, “Well, whatever it is, it hasn’t 



472 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

prevented me from having a ripping good time. They’ve 
seen to that, and just done everything for my pleasure.” 

She looked up quickly, and to his relief he saw that 
for once he had said the right thing. 

“You have enjoyed it then?” she questioned eager¬ 
ly. 

“Most awfully,” he assured her warmly. “I shall 
always remember what a happy leave they gave me.” 

She gave a little sigh of satisfaction, “I am so 
glad,” she said. “They wanted you to have a good 
time—that was what we all wanted.” 

He looked at her gratefully, thinking how sweet she 
was in her fair English beauty, and how good to care 
that he should have enjoyed his leave. How different 
she was too from Sallie Berkeley—why she would have 
made two of his little girl! And how quiet! Sallie 
Berkeley, with her quick glancing vivacity, would have 
been all around her and off again like a humming-bird 
before she could have uttered two words. And yet he 
was sure that they would have been friends, just as he 
and Chev were. Perhaps they all would be, after the 
war. And then he began to talk about Chev, being sure 
that, had the circumstances been reversed, Sallie Berke¬ 
ley would have wanted news of him. Instantly he was 
aware of a tense listening stillness on her part. That 
pleased him. Well, she did care for the old fellow all 
right, he thought; and though she made no response, 
averting her face, and plucking nervously at the leaves 
of the hedge as they passed slowly along, he went on 
pouring out his eager admiration for his friend. 

At last they came to a seat in an arbor, from which 
one looked out upon a green beneficent landscape. It 
was an intimate secluded little spot—and oh, if Sallie 
Berkeley were only there to sit beside him ! And as he 
thought of this, it came to him whimsically that in all 
probability she must be longing for Chev, just as he was 
for Sallie. » 

Dropping down on the bench beside her, he leaned 
over, and said with a friendly, almost brotherly, grin of 


MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 473 

understanding, ‘*1 reckon you’re wishing Captain Sher¬ 
wood was sitting here, instead of Lieutenant Cary.” 

The minute the impulsive words were out his mouth, 
he knew he had blundered, been awkward, and inexcus¬ 
ably intimate. She gave a little choked gasp, and her 
blue eyes stared up at him, wide and startled. Good 
heavens, what a break he had made! No wonder the 
Sherwoods couldn t trust him in company! There 
seemed no apology that he could offer in words, but at 
least, he thought, he would show her that he would not 
have intruded on her secret without being willing to 
share his with her. W ith awkward haste he put his hand 
into his breast-pocket, and dragged forth the picture of 
Sallie Berkeley he always carried there. 

“This is the little girl I’m thinking about,” he said, 
turning very red, yet boyishly determined to make 
amends, and also proudly confident of Sallie Berkeley’s 
charms. “I’d like mighty well for you two to know one 
another. ’ ’ 

She took the picture in silence, and for a long mo¬ 
ment stared down at the soft little face, so fearless, so 
confident and gay, that smiled appealingly back at her. 
Then she did something astonishing,—something which 
seemed to him wholly un-English,—and yet he thought 
it the sweetest thing he had ever seen. Cupping her 
strong hands about the picture with a quick protective¬ 
ness, she suddenly raised it to her lips, and kissed it 
lightly. “0 little girl!” she cried, “I hope you will be 
very happy ! ’ ’ 

The little involuntary act, so tender, so sisterly and 
spontaneous, touched the Virginian extremely. 

“Thanks awfully,” he said unsteadily. “She’ll 
think a lot of that, just as I do—and I know she’d wish 

vou the same.” 

* 

She made no reply to that, and as she handed the 
picture back to him, he saw that her hands were trem¬ 
bling, and he had a sudden conviction that, if she had been 
Sallie Berkeley, her eyes would have been full of tears. 
As she was Sybil Gaylord, however, there were no tears 


474 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


there, only a look that he never forgot. The look of one 
much older, protective, maternal almost, and as if she 
were gazing back at Sallie Berkeley and himself from 
a long way ahead on the road of life. He supposed it 
was the way most English people felt nowadays. He 
had surprised it so often on all their faces, that he could 
not help speaking of it. 

“You all think we Americans are awfully young 
and raw, don’t you?” he questioned. 

“Oh, no, not that,” she deprecated. “Young per¬ 
haps for these days, yes—but it is more that you—that 
your country is so—so unsuffered. And we don’t want 
you to suffer! ’ ’ she added quickly. 

Y r es, that was it! He understood now, and, heav¬ 
ens, how fine it was! Old England was wounded deep— 
deep. What she suffered herself she was too proud to 
show; but out of it she wrought a great maternal care 
for the newcomer. Yes, it was fine—he hoped his coun¬ 
try would understand. 

Miss Gaylord rose. “There are Gerald and father 
looking for you,” she said, “and I must go now.” She 
held out her hand. “Thank you for letting me see her 
picture, and for everything you said about Captain 
Sherwood—for everything , remember—I want you to 
remember. ’ ’ v 

With a light pressure of her fingers she was gone, 
slipping away through the shrubbery, and he did not 
see her again. 

IY 

So he came to his last morning at Bishopsthorpe; 
and as he dressed, he wished it could have been different; 
that he were not still conscious of that baffling wall of 
reserve between himself and Chev’s people, for whom, 
despite all, he had come to have a real affection. 

In the breakfast-room he found them all assembled, 
and his last meal there seemed to him as constrained 
and difficult as any that had preceded it. It was over 
finally, however, and in a few minutes he would be 
leaving. 


MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 


475 


“I can never thank you enough for the splendid 
time I ve had here,” he said as he rose. “Ill be seeing 
Chev tomorrow, and I’ll tell him all about everything.” 

Then he stopped dead. With a smothered excla¬ 
mation, old Sir Charles had stumbled to his feet, knock¬ 
ing over his chair, and hurried blindly out of the room; 
and Gerald said, “Mother!” in a choked appeal. 

As if it were a signal between them, Lady Sherwood 
pushed her chair back a little from the table, her long 
delicate fingers dropped together loosely in her lap; she 
gave a faint sigh as if a restraining mantle slipped from 
her shoulders, and looking up at the youth before her, 
her fine pale face lighted with a kind of glory, she said, 
“No, dear lad, no. You can never tell Chev, for he is 
gone. ’ ’ 

“Gone!” he cried. 

“Yes,” she nodded back to him, just above a whis¬ 
per; and now her face quivered, and the tears began to 
rush down her cheeks. 

“Not dead!” he cried. “Not Chev—not that! 0 
my God, Gerald, not that!” 

“Yes,” Gerald said. “They got him two days 
after you left.” 

It was so overwhelming, so unexpected and shocking, 
above all so terrible, that the friend he had so greatly 
loved and admired was gone out of his life forever, that 
young Cary stumbled back into his seat, and crumpling 
over, buried his face in his hands, making great uncouth 
gasps as he strove to choke back his grief. 

Gerald groped hastily around the table, and flung 
an arm about his shoulders. 

“Steady on, dear fellow, steady,” he said, though 
his own voice broke. 

“When did you hear?” Cary got out at last. 

“We got the official notice just the day before you 
came — an d Withers has written us particulars since.” 

“And you let me come in spite of it! And stay on, 
when every word I said about him must have—have 
fairly crucified each one of you. Oh, forgive me! forgive 


476 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

me!” lie cried distractedly. He saw it all now; he 
understood at last. It was not on Gerald’s account that 
they could not talk of flying and of Chev, it was because 
—because their hearts were broken over Chev himself. 

‘‘Oh, forgive me!” he gasped again. 

‘‘Dear lad, there is nothing to forgive,” Lady Sher¬ 
wood returned. “How could we help loving your gen¬ 
erous praise of our poor darling? We loved it, and you 
for it; we wanted to hear it, but we were afraid. We 
were afraid we might break down, and that you would 
find out.” 

The tears were still running down her cheeks. She 
did not brush them away now; she seemed glad to have 
them there at last. 

Sinking down on his knees, he caught her hands. 
“Why did you let me do such a horrible thing?” he 
cried. “Couldn’t you have trusted me to understand? 
Couldn’t you see I loved him just as you did—No, no!” 
he broke down humbly, “Of course I couldn’t love him 
as his own people loved him. But you must have seen 
how I felt about him—How I admired him, and would 
have followed him anywhere—and of course if I had 
known, I should have gone away at once.” 

“Ah, but that is just what we were afraid of,” she 
said quickly. “We were afraid you would go away 
and have a lonely leave somewhere. And in these days 
a boy’s leave is so precious a thing that nothing must 
spoil it— nothing she reiterated; and her tears fell upon 
his hands like a benediction. “But we didn’t do it very 
well, I’m afraid,” she went on presently, with gentle 
contrition. “You were too quick and understanding; 
you guessed there was something wrong. We were sorry 
not to manage better,” she apologized. 

“Oh, you wonderful, wonderful people!” he gasped. 
“Doing everything for my happiness, when all the time 
—all the time—” 

His voice went out sharply, as his mind flashed back 
to scene after scene: to Gerald’s long body lying quiv¬ 
ering on the grass; to Sybil Gaylord wishing Sallie 



MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 477 

Berkeley happiness out of her own tragedy; and to the 
high look on Lady Sherwood’s face. They seemed to 
him themselves, and yet more than themselves—shining 
bits in the mosaic of a great nation. Disjointedly there 
passed through his mind familiar words—“ these are 
they who have washed their garments—having come out 
of great tribulation.” No wonder they seemed older. 

“We—we couldn’t have done it in America,” he 
said humbly. 

He had a desperate desire to get away to himself; to 
hide his face in his arms, and give vent to the tears that 
w T ere stifling him; to weep for his lost friend, and for 
this great heartbreaking heroism of theirs. 

“But why did you do it?” he persisted. “Was it 
because I w r as his friend?” 

“Oh, it was much more than that,” Gerald said 
quickly. “It was a matter of the two countries. Of 
course, we jolly well knew you didn’t belong to us, and 
didn’t want to, but for the life of us we couldn’t help 
a sort of feeling that you did. And when America was 
in at last, and you fellows began to come, you seemed 
like our very own come back after many years, and, ’ ’ he 
added, a throb in his voice, “we were most awfully glad 
to see you—we wanted a chance to show jmu how Eng¬ 
land felt.” 

Skipworth Cary rose to his feet. The tears for his 
friend were still wet upon his lashes. Stooping, he 
took Lady Sherwood’s hands in his and raised them to 
his lips. “Ab long as 1 live, I shall never forget,” he 
said. ‘ ‘ And others of us have seen it too in other ways— 
be sure America will never forget, either.” 

She looked up at his untouched youth out of her 
beautiful sad eyes, the exalted light still shining through 
her tears. “Yes,” she said, “you see it was—I don’t 
know exactly how to put it—but it was England to 
America.” 


The Atlantic Monthly, 1919. 


478 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


THE LITTLE TRUMPETERS 
I met the herald jonquils 
Amid the grass to-day 
They trooped, the little trumpeters, 

In glad and green array; 

Each held a golden bugle, 

And each a spear of green, 

They said that they were messengers 
Prom April’s misty queen. 

Spring gave a swift direction, 

A hidden countersign,— 

Mayhap it was the blue bird’s pipe,— 

They straightened up in line; 

There came a rushing whisper, 

A mystic sudden breeze; 

It tossed their little horns on high, 

Their trumpets to the trees. 

They blew a golden message, 

A shout of love and spring, 

A tip-toe blast of just one word— 

A word for stars to sing; 

They tossed their living trumpets, 

The word they blew and blew— 

And the word, 0 Lord of Life, the word 
Was You! You! You! 

The Atlantic Monthly, 1922. 


THE MEETING PLACE 

There fell a sudden spring-time clutch 
Upon my heart to-day; 

It was Dame Nature’s mystic touch 
To hale me forth to play. 

Her feet were clad in dancing shoon, 
She wore a wood-green gown; 



MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 479 

She seemed to breathe a silver tune 
That wrapt her, foot to crown. 

She piped me forth with deep intent, 

To weave a mjagic art; 

With bud and bloom, and lovely scent, 

She stabbed me to the heart; 

With dandelions gleaming white, 

With lambs that skipped about, 

With every green and growing sight, 

She made my joy gush out. 

And so we came in love together 
To where my garden lay, 

Drunk with the heady draught of weather 
That is the gift of May. 

So dear it was, that darling sight, 

I spoke what I believe: 

“I sometimes think in my delight 
That God walks here at eve!” 

There ran a ripple through the breeze, 

The flowers drew together, 

A hint of mirth was in the trees, 

In nest and bird and feather. 

“There was another long ago,” 

I think the flowers cried, 

“Who in a garden did not know 
The Wonder by her side.” 

Breathless I turned to Nature’s face, 

She bent on me her eyes. 

Oh, still and lovely meeting-place! 

Oh, leap of wild surprise! 

Oh, utter joy! Oh, love complete! 

I eagerly fell down; 

I sought to kiss the shining feet, 

To clutch the wood-green gown. 

But He was gone—my Lord withdrew, 

The garden bowed its head. 

“You did not know? We always knew,” 

The smallest blossom said. 

The Atlantic Monthly, 1922. 



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The Old Church and Other Poems. Marlinton, The Poca¬ 
hontas Times Publishing Co., 1921. 

DANIEL BOARDMAN PURINTON 

College Songs for West Virginia University. 1875. 

Contest of the Frogs. 1888. 

Christian Theism. 1889, 1899. 

ANNE ROYALL 

Sketches of History. Life and Manners in the United 
States. By a Traveller. New Haven, 1826. 

The Tennessean. A Novel Founded on Facts. 1827. 

The Black Book, or, A Continuation of Travels in the United 
States. Washington, 1829. 

Mrs. Royall’s Southern Tour, or, Second Series of the Black 
Book. Washington, 1830. 

Letters from Alabama. Washington, 1830. 

Mrs. Royall’s Pennsylvania, or, Travels Continued in the 
United States. Washington, 1829. 


488 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


ANNA PIERPONT SIVITER 

Nehe, A Tale of the Time of Artaxerxes. Boston, W. A. 
Wilde Co., Publishers, 1901. 

The Sculptor and Other Poems. Pittsburgh, Press of 
Pierpont, Siviter & Co., Ltd., 1903. 

Songs of Hope. 190G. 

Four Christmas Days. 1912. 

On Parole. New York, H. Holt and Company, 1916. 
Songs Sung Along Life’s Way. 1921. 

FRANCIS R. STOCKTON 

A Northern Voice for the Dissolution of the Union. New 
York, printed for the author, 1861. 

Ting-a-Ling. New York, Hurd & Houghton, 1870. 
Round-about Rambles in Lands of Fact and Fancy. New 
York, Scribner, Armstrong & Co., 1872. 

The Home. Where It Should be and What to Put in It. 
New York, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1872. 

What Might Have Been Expected. New York, Dodd, 
Mead & Co., 1874. 

Tales Out of School New York, Scribner, Armstrong & 
Co., 1875. 

Rudder Grange. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1879. 
A Jolly Fellowship. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 

18S0. 

The Floating Prince and Other Fairy Tales. New York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1881. 

The Transferred Ghost New Y'ork, Charles Scribner’s 
Sons, 1884. 

The Lady or The Tiger? and Other Stories. New York, 
Charles Scribner's Sons, 18S4. 

The Story of Viteaii. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 

1884. 

The Casting Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine. New 
York, The Century Co., 1886. 

The Late Mrs. Null. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 

1886. 

The Christmas Wreck and Other Stories. New York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1886. 

‘The Hundredth Man.' New York, The Century Co., 1887 
The Bee-Man of Orn and Other Fanciful Tales. New 
York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1887. 

Amos Kilbright: His Adscititious Experiences With Other 
New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1888. 

The Dusantes. New York, The Century Co., 1888. 
Personally Conducted. New York, Charles Scribner’s 

Sons, 1889. 

The Great War Syndicate. New York, Peter F. Collier, 

1889. 

The Stories of the Three Burglars. New York, Dodd, 
Mead & Co.. 1890. 

Ardis Claverden. New York, Dodd, Mead & Co., 1890. 

The Merry Chanter. New York, The Century Co., 1890. 
The House of Martha. Boston, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 

1891. 

The Rudder Grangers Abroad and Other Stories. New 
York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1891. 

The Squirrel Inn. New York, The Century Co., 1891. 
Eleven Possible Cases. New York, Cassell Publishing Co., 

1891. 

The Clocks of Rondaine and Other Stories. New York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1892. 

The Watchmaker’s Wife and Other Stories. New York, 
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1893. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


489 


Fanciful Tales. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1894. 
Pomona’s Travels New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1894. 
The Adventures of Captain Horn. London, Cassell and 
Company, 1895, 1900, 1901, 1907, 1908. 

A Chosen Few New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1895. 
The Spirit of Washington. Morristown, N. J., The Jersey- 
man Office, 1895. 

Mrs. Cliff’s Yacht New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1896. 
New Jersey, from the discovery of Scheyichbi to Recent 
Times. New York, D. Appleton & Company. 

Stories of New Jersey. New York, American Book Co., 

1896. 

A Story-Teller’s Pack. New York, Charles Scribner’s 
Sons, 1897. 

Captain Chap, or. The Rolling Stones. Philadelphia, J. 
B. Lippincott & Co., 1897. 

The Girl at Cobhurst. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 

1898. 

What Might Have Been Expected.' New York, Dodd, 
Mead and Company. 

The Great Stone of Sardis. New York, Harper & Bros., 

1898. 

Buccaneers and Pirates of Our Coast. New York, The 
Macmillan Company, 1898. 

The Associate Hermits. New York, Harper & Bros., 1899. 
The Vizier of the Two-Horned Alexander. New York, The 
Century Co., 1899. 

The Young Master of Hyson Hall. Philadelphia, J. B. 
Lippincott Co., 1899. 

Novels and Stories. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 
1899-1904. 

A Bicycle of Cathay. New York, Harper & Bros., 1900. 
Afield and Afloat New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1900. 
Kate Bonnett. The Romance of a Pirate’s Daughter. 
New York, D. Appleton and Company, 1902. 

John Gayther’s Garden and the Stories Told Therein. 
New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1902. 

The Captain’s Toll-Gate. New York, D. Appleton and 
Company, 1903. 

Tales Out of School. New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 

1903. 

The Queen’s Museum and Other Fanciful Tales. New 
York, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1906. 

The Magic Egg and Other Stories. New York, Charles 
Scribner’s Sons, 1907. 

Stories of the Spanish Main. New York, The Macmillan 
Company, 1913. 

DAVID HUNTER STROTHER 
The Blackwater Chronicle, (generally attributed to John 
Pendleton Kennedy). New York, Redfleld, 1853. 

Virginia Illustrated; Containing a Visit to the Virginian 
Canaan. New York, Harper and Brothers, 1857. 

The Capital of West Virginia and the Great Kanawha Val¬ 
ley Charleston, W. Va., Journal Office, 1872. 

Historical Address, (July 4, 1876). Washington, D. C., 
M’Gill and Witherow, 1876. 

HOWARD LLLEWELLYN SWISHER 
History of Hampshire County, (Joint author with Hu 
Maxwell) 1897. 

Briar Blossoms Morgantown, W Va., The Acme Publish¬ 
ing Company, 1898. 


490 


STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 


Book of Harangues, by the Chief of the Tribe of Ghourki. 
Morgantown, W. Va., The Acme Publishing Co., 1908. 

BETTY BUSH WINGER 
My Dream Garden. 

The Glad New Year and I. Gallipolis, Ohio, The Booton 
Press, 1922. 

ALEXANDER SCOTT WITHERS 
Chronicles of Border Warfare. Clarksburg, Joseph Israel, 
Publisher, 1831. 

Second Edition. Reuben Goldthw r aites, Editor. Cincinnati, 
The Robert Clark Co., 1895. 

EMMA WITHERS 

Wildwood Chimes. Cincinnati, The Robert Clark Co. 

WARREN WOOD 

The Tragedy of the Deserted Isle. Boston, C. M. Clark 
Publishing Company, 1909. 

When Virginia Was Rent in Twain. New York, Broad¬ 
way Publishing Company, 1913. 

Voices from the Valley. Boston, The Cornhill Pubilshing 
Company. 

KATHARINE PEARSON WOODS 
Metzerott Shoemaker New York, T. Y. Crowell & Co., 

1889. 

Mark of the Beast. 1890. 

A Web of Gold. New York, T. Y. Crowell & Co., 1890. 
Prom Dusk to Dawn. New York, D. Appleton & Co., 1892. 
John; A Tale of the Messiah. New York, Dodd, Mead & 
Co., 1896. 

The Crowning of Candace. New York, Dodd, Mead & Co.. 

1896. 

The Son of Ingar, New York. Dodd. Mead & Co., 1897. 
The True Story of Captain John Smith. New York, Dou¬ 
bleday, Page & Co., 1901. 


INDEX TO AUTHORS 


Appleton, Everard Jack.333 

Armstrong, Robert Allen.409 

Atkeson, Mary Meek. ' .450 

Atkinson, George Wesley.330 

Barbe, Waitman...177 

Bean, Joseph Herbert.421 

Bedinger, Henry. 68 

Biddle, Virginia.414 

Bland, Prances Moore. 211 

Blennerhassett, Margaret. 3 

Brooke, Charles Frederick Tucker.381 

Byer, St. John.399 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton. 44 

Cornwell, John Jacob.374 

Cornwell, Marshall S.207 

Cunningham, Albert Benjamin.441 

Dandridge, Danske. .153 

Davis, Rebecca Harding. 71 

Dillon, John Brown.. 18 

Doddridge, Joseph. 9 

English, Thomas Dunn. 51 

Eskew, Garnett Laidlaw.417 

Ford, George M.202 

Hall, John S.327 

Harrison, Henry Sydnor.349 

Haworth, Clarence Everett. 347 

Henderson, Anna R.213 

Johnson, Clyde Beecher.406 

Johnson, Fanny Kemble (Mrs. Vincent Costello). . .287 

Johnson, Philander Chase.219 

Jones, Beuliring.115 

Kenna, Edward Benningliaus.269 

King, Amanda Ellen.151 


491 


































492 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

King, Georgiana Goddard.334 

Lee, Edwin Gray.132 

Lees, Thomas J. 29 

Leighton, William.149 

Lucas, Daniel Bedinger.124 

Lucas, Virginia.199 

Lucas, Virginia Bedinger.. • • • »H8 

McBee, Lena.491 

Maxwell, Hu. 194 

Meador, Joseph Margrave.379 

Montague, Margaret Prescott.456 

Mitchell, John Kearsley. 42 

Pemberton, Robert Landon.317 

Post, Melville Davisson..423 

Price, Anna Louise.448 

Purinton, Daniel Boardman.137 

Quick, Herbert. ..245 

Royall, Anne. 20 

Siviter, Anna Pierpont.• • • -281 

Smart, Frank Preston.311 

Snyder, Harry Lambright..322 

Stockton, Francis Richard.224 

Strother, David Hunter. 60 

Swisher, Howard Llewellyn.206 

Wheatley, Blanche A.343 

Wills, Nina Blundon.404 

Winger, Betty Bush.446 

Withers, Alexander Scott. 38 

Withers, Emma. 170 

Wood, Warren.411 

Woods, Katharine Pearson.278 

































INDEX TO TITLES 


A Comment.311 

A Cottage Sonnet.447 

A Pall Time Hunt.-.378 

A Humble Sermon.221 

k A Man Called Dante, I Have Heard 7 ’.336 

America’s Prayer.......405 

Among Its Flocks and Herds.192 

A Mother’s Kiss.277 

An Elegy on His Family Vault. 10 

Angelus, The.400 

An Old Love Song.180 

April.415 

A Song of Love and Summer.279 

A Song of Sunset..280 

A Song of the Open Air.269 

A Sonnet Is a Jewel..149 

A Summer Song.274 

A Summer Song amid the Hills.322 

At Dusk.416 

At the Wood’s Edge.193 

At Swithin’s Run.172 

A Well-Regulated Family. 382 

A Whiff of Smoke.248 

Bandits and Such.451 

Ben Bolt. 52 

Black Gum ag’in’ Thunder.228 

Bloodroot.162 

Bunyan in Prison.314 

Burial of the Beautiful, The. 18 

California .. 168 

Call, The.335 

Catching the Train.321 

Christmas.146, 405 


493 



































494 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Columbine.200 

Comment, A. . ..311 

Compensation. .341; 

Compline.337; 

Content. 454 

Cottage Sonnet, A.447 

Daughter of the Stars,The.418 

Death of Cornstalk, The. 14 

Deserted Isle, The. 6 

Desire.,.160 

Doomdorf Mystery, The.427 

Down Long Run.317 

Elegy on His Family Vault, An. 10 

England to America.459 

Eventide. 346 

Fall Time Hunt, A .378 

Fancies.213 

Field of Song, The.216 

Fighting Failure, The.339 

Florence V ane. 45 

Flutter Mill, The.327 

Fountain, The.140 

Gauley River. 54 

God of Progress, The.222 

Golden Gate, The.165 

Guerdon. 311 

Heart of Goliath, The.250 

Hepatica.171 

How Can I, Lord?.272 

Humble Sermon, A.221 

Hylas.336 

Indian Pipes.170 

Indian Summer..122, 412 

Indian Summer, The. 16 

Inspiration.269 

In West Virginia. 206 

I Want to Go A-fishing. 273 

Journey to Canaan, The. 62 

Joy o’ the World.277 









































INDEX TO TITLES 


495 


Land where We Were Dreaming, The.129 

Larkspur.448 

Lazy, Hazy Days.377 

Life in the Iron Mills. 73 

Little Trumpeters, The. 477 

Lost Child, The.288 

Mariner’s Love, The..203 

Massacre at Port Seybert, The. /.. 39 

Meeting of the Shenandoah and Potomac at Harper’s 

Ferry.119 

Meeting Place, The...477 

Midsummer . ..344 

Mr. Zirkle and Ruthless Rose Amy.353 

Moonlight on Kanawha.419 

Moonlight Schools.402 

Moor’s Key, The..290 

Morning.422 

Mother’s Eyes.216 

Mother’s Kiss, A.277 

Mountains, The. 47 

Musings on the Ohio. 31 

My Heart Is in the Mountains.127 

My Southern Home.116 

New and the Old Song, The. 43 

Nimrod.320 

Not Yet.. 285 

Old Calhoun.312 

Old Love Song, An.180 

Ole Brer Groun’ Hog.379 

Once in a While. 220 

One of the Many.410 

One Year.376 

On the Potomac.192 

Our Records. 331 

Palm Tree, The.284 

Paying Their Way.217 

Preacher at the Three Churches, The.183 

Price of the Present Paid by the Past, The.143 

Rafting on the Guyandotte. 56 








































49G STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

Relic Day.214 

Renunciation.399 

Rhododendron.402 

Robin’s Creed, The.182 

Romance of Two Fish, The.443 

Rose of the Cloth of Gold, The.133 

Rue Anemone. 199 

Salt Works of Kenhawa County, The. 24 

Samaritan.315- 

Scattered Shells.447 

Sculptor, The.282 

Ships in Hampton Roads.419 

Sidney Lanier.179 

Silence.414 

Singing He Rode.289 

Slavery. 34 

Sleepy Hollow.150 

Some Day.209 

“Somewhere in France”.421 

Song of Love and Summer, A.279 

Song of the Monongahela.180 

Song of the Open Air, A.260 

Song of Sunset, A.280 

Song Sparrow, The.161 

Sonnet Is a Jewel, A.149 

Soul of the Little Room, The.458 

Spirit and the Wood-Sparrow, The.158 

Spring ’neath the Old Gum Tree.207 

Stars of Gold.195 

Struggle, The.162 

Success.209 

Summer Song, A. 276 

Summer Song amid the Hills, A.322 

Thanksgiving,.404 

The Angelus.400 

The Burial of the Beautiful. 18 

The Call.335 

The Daughter of the Stars.418 

The Death of Cornstalk. 14 









































INDEX TO TITLES 497 

The Deserted Isle. 6 

The Doomdorf Mystery.427 

The Field of Song.216 

The Fighting Failure.339 

The Flutter Mill.327 

The Fountain.142 

The God of Progress.222 

The Golden Gate.165 

The Heart of Goliath.250 

The Indian Summer. 16 

The Journey to Canaan. 62 

The Land Where We Were Dreaming.129 

The Lost Child.288 

The Little Trumpeters.477 

The Mariner’s Love.203 

The Massacre at Fort Seybert. 39 

The Meeting Place.477 

The Moor’s Key.290 

The Mountains. 47 

The New and the Old Song. 43 

The Palm Tree...284 

The Preacher at the Three Churches.183 

The Price of the Present Paid by the Past.143 

The Robin’s Creed.182 

The Romance of Two Fish.443 

The Rose of the Cloth of Gold.133 

The Salt Works of Kenhawha County. 24 

The Sculptor.282. 

The Song Sparrow. 161 

The Soul of the Little Room.458 

The Spirit and the Wood-Sparrow.158 

The Spring ’neath the Old Gum Tree.207 

The Struggle....162 

The Tree.285 

The Trickster.346 

The Valley of Slumberland.276 

The Veterans.318 

The Violet.348 

The Voices of Autumn.408 









































498 STORIES AND VERSE OF WEST VIRGINIA 

The Watcher.289 

The West Virginia Hills.151 

The Wild Easter Lily. 406 

The Woman Who Understands.340 

They Both Needed It.291 

The Yucca. 158 

Time, Break Thy Glass.150 

To a Mocking Bird.134 

To Memory.155 

To My Comrade Tree.155 

To the Potomac River.. 69 

To Verna Page.348 

Tree, The.285 

Trickster, The.346 

Valley of Slumberland, The.276 

Veterans, The.318 

Violet, The.,.348 

Voices from the Valley.406 

Voices of Autumn, The.408 

Watcher, The.289 

Well Regulated Family, A.382 

West Virginia.323 

West Virginia Hills.138 

West Virginia Hills, The. .151 

Wheeling Hill. 35 

Whiff of Smoke, A.248 

Wild Easter Lily, The.406 

Woman Who Understands, The.340 

Woods in May.401 

Young Rosalie Lee. 50 

Yucca, The.158 


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